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Kirill Yeskov

The Last Rlngbearer

© 1999 Kirill Yeskov, £ifr£inius999@gm£ill.com
© 2010 Yisroel Markov (English translation), ey.markov@hotmail.com
© 201 1 Yisroel Meirkov (updated English treinslation)

The translator gratefully acknowledges the extensive assistance of the
author in preparation of the translation, and that of several readers in its
updating.

For non-commercial distribution only

The Last Ringbearer

Part I - Vae Victis 4

Chapter 1 4

Chapter 2 6

Chapters 8

Chapter 4 10

Chapters 13

Chapter 6 15

Chapter? 17

Chapter 8 20

Chapter 9 22

Chapter 10 25

Chapter 11 29

Chapter 12 32

Chapter 13 35

Chapter 14 39

Chapter 15 42

Chapter 16 45

Chapter 17 49

Chapter 18 52

Chapter 19 55

Part II - The King and the Steward 59

Chapter 20 59

Chapter 21 62

Chapter 22 65

Chapter 23 70

Chapter 24 72

Chapter 25 76

Chapter 26 80

Chapter 27 83

Chapter 28 86

Chapter 29 90

Chapter 30 94

Chapter 31 98

Chapter 32 102

Chapter 33 105

Chapter 34 107

Chapter 35 109

Part III - The Umbarian Gambit 1 14

Chapter 36 114

Chapter 37 117

Chapter 38 121

Chapter 39 124

Chapter 40 127

Chapter 41 131

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Chapter 42 134

Chapter 43 138

Chapter 44 141

Chapter 45 145

Chapter 46 148

Chapter 47 151

Chapter 48 156

Chapter 49 160

Chapter 50 164

Chapter 51 167

Chapter 52 170

Chapter 53 174

Chapter 54 178

Part IV - Ransom for a Shadow 181

Chapter 55 181

Chapter 56 184

Chapter 57 187

Chapter 58 191

Chapter 59 193

Chapter 60 196

Chapter 61 200

Chapter 62 203

Chapter 63 207

Chapter 64 209

Chapter 65 212

Chapter 66 215

Chapter 67 217

Chapter 68 221

Chapter 69 223

Epilogue 228

Appendix 1 235

Appendix II 246

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No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves.
But you - you will die of the shame.
And then we shall dance on your graves!
Rudyard Kipling

Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.

Winston Cliurcliill

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Part I - Vae Victis^

"Gold is for the mistress - silver for the maid -
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all."
Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 1

Mordor, Hutel-Hara sands
April 6, 3019 of the Third Age

Is there a sight more beautiful than a desert sunset, when the sun, as if ashamed of its
whitish daytime fierceness, lavishes a bounty of unimaginably pure soft colors on its guests?
Especially good are countless shades of purple, which turn the dunes into a charmed sea -
don't miss those couple of minutes, they will never happen that way again ... Or the last
moment before sunrise, when the first light of dawn interrupts in mid-movement the staid
minuet of moon shadows on the lacquered hardtops - for those dances are forever hidden
from the uninitiated, those who prefer day to night ... Or the never-ending tragedy of the
hour when the power of darkness begins to wane and the fuzzy clusters of the evening
constellations suddenly turn into prickly icy crumbs, which by morning will rime the
bronzed gravel of the hamadal

It was at such a midnight hour that two men glided like grey shadows along the
gravelly inner edge of a sickle-shaped gap between two low dunes, and the distance between
them was exactly that prescribed by the Field Manual for such occasions. However,
contrary to the rules, the one bearing the largest load was not the rear 'main force' private,
but rather the 'forward guard' one, but there were good reasons for that. The one in the rear
limped noticeably and was nearly out of strength; his face - narrow and beak-nosed, clearly
showing a generous serving of Umbar blood - was covered with a sheen of sticky sweat.
The one in the lead was a typical Orocuen by his looks, short and wide-faced - in other
words, the very 'Ore' that mothers of Westernesse use to scare unruly children; this one
advanced in a fast zigzagging pattern, his every movement noiseless, precise and spare, like
those of a predator that has sniffed prey. He had given his cloak of bactrian wool, which
always keeps the same temperature - whether in the heat of midday or the pre-dawn chill -
to his partner, leaving himself with a captured Elvish cloak, priceless in a forest but utterly
useless here in the desert.

But it was not the cold that bothered the Orocuen right now: listening keenly to the
silence of the night, he cringed as if with toothache every time he heard the crunch of gravel
under the unsteady feet of his companion. Sure, to run into an Elvish patrol here, in the
middle of the desert, would be almost impossible, and besides, for the Elves starlight is not
light at all, they need the moon . . . Nevertheless, Sergeant Tzerlag, leader of a recon squad
of the Cirith Ungol Rangers Regiment, never relied on chance in his work, and had always
tirelessly repeated to new recruits: "Remember this, lads: the Field Manual is a book where
every jot and tittle is written with the blood of smartasses who tried to do it their way." This
must have been how he managed to lose only two men during the entire three years of the

' "Woe to the vanquished" (Latin) - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wikiA^ae_victis

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war, and in his own estimation he was prouder of that than of the Medal of the Eye, which
he received last spring from the Commander of the South Army. Even now, home in
Mordor, he behaved as if he was still on an extended raid on the Plains of Rohan; although
what kind of home was it now, really? . . .

A new sound came from behind - something between a moan and a sigh. Tzerlag
looked back, estimated the distance, and, dropping his sack in a flash (but so that not a
buckle clanged), made it to his companion just in time. The man was slowly sagging,
fighting unconsciousness, and passed out the moment that sergeant grabbed him under the
arms. Silently cussing, the scout returned to his sack to get the flask. Some partner, dammit
. . . useful like a doorstop . . .

"Here, drink some, mister. Feeling worse again?"

The moment the prone man got a couple of swigs down, his whole body convulsed
with tortuous gagging.

"Sorry, Sergeant," he muttered guiltily. "Just wasted water."

"Don't worry about it, the underground collector is really close now. What did you
call that water then. Field Medic, sir? Some funny word."
"Adiabatic."

"You live, you learn. Anyhow, water's not our worry. Leg giving out again?"

"Afraid so. Listen, Sergeant . . . leave me here and make for that nomadic camp of
yours - you said it was close, like fifteen miles. Then come back. If we run into Elves,
we're both done for. I'm not good for much now ..."

Tzerlag thought for a while, absently drawing signs of the Eye in the sand. Then he
smoothed out the sand and rose decisively.

"We'll camp under the yonder dune, looks like the ground should be firmer over there.
Will you make it there yourself, or will it be easier to carry you?"

"Listen, Sergeant ..."

"Silence, doctor! Sorry, but right now you're like a little kid, safer under supervision.
Should the Elves catch you, in fifteen minutes they'll know everything: how many in the
group, where headed and all that. I value my skin too much for that ... So - can you walk a
hundred fifty paces?"

He trudged where he was told, molten lead rising up his leg with every step. Right
under the dune he faded out again, and did not see how the scout first painstakingly masked
the vomit, foot- and body prints, and then dug out a day hideout, quickly as a mole. He
regained awareness as the sergeant was carefully leading him to the fabric-lined hole.
"Think you'll be better in a couple of days, mister?"

Meanwhile, a disgusting pus-and-blood-colored moon rose over the desert. Now there
was enough light to examine the leg. The wound itself was superficial, but it refused to scab
over and bled at the slightest touch - the Elvish arrow had been poisoned, as usual. On that
terrible day he had used up his entire stock of antidotes on the seriously wounded, hoping
for a break. There was none. Tzerlag dug him a hideout under a fallen oak in a forest a few
miles north-east of Osgiliath Crossing, and for five days he lay there, clutching with his
fingernails to the icy windowsill of life. On the sixth day he managed to surface from the
purple maelstrom of unbearable pain and listened to the sergeant's tales, drinking bitter
Imlad Morgul water, which stank with some unknown chemical (there was no other water in
safe reach). The remnants of the South Army, bottled up in Morgul Gorge, had laid down
their arms, and the Elves and the Gondorians drove them somewhere beyond the Anduin; a

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crazed mumak from the defeated Harad battalion had trampled his field hospital, wounded
and all, into bloody pulp; it looked like there was nothing else to save there and it was time
to head home, to Mordor.

They got started on the ninth night, as soon as he could walk. The scout chose to use
the Cirith Ungol pass, figuring that not even a mouse could make it by the Ithilien highway
now. The worst part was that he hadn't figured out his poisoning (some poison expert!): by
the symptoms it looked to have been something new, from the most recent Elvish
developments. His medicine box was almost empty anyway. On the fourth day the sickness
came back at the most inopportune time, right when they were slipping by the freshly built
military camp of the Western allies at the foot of Minas Morgul. For three days they had to
hide out in the ominous ruins there, and on the third evening the sergeant whispered to him
in surprise: "Your hair's going white, mister!" The most likely culprit here was not the
mythical undead keepers of the ruins, but the quite real gallows erected by the victors on the
side of the road some twenty yards from their hideout. The six corpses in tattered
Mordorian uniforms (a large sign informed in fine Elvish runes that these were "war
criminals") had attracted the entire raven population of the Mountains of Shadow to a feast,
and this sight will probably haunt his dreams to the end of his days.

Tonight's bout was the third. Shaking with fever, he crawled into the fabric-lined
hole, and once again thought: how must Tzerlag be doing, in his Elvish rag? Some time
later the scout slipped into the hideout; water gurgled quietly, once, in one of his flasks, then
sand dribbled down from the ceiling - the Orocuen was masking the entry hole from the
inside. The moment he rested, like a child, against that reliable back, cold, pain and fear
began to slip away, and a calm certainty that the crisis was over came from somewhere.
Now I only need to get some sleep, and I'll stop being a burden to Tzerlag . . . just some
sleep ...

"Haladdin! Hey, Haladdin!"

Who is that calling me? And how did I come to be in Barad-diir? All right, let it be
Barad-diir . . .

Chapter 2

Fifty miles east from the Orodruin volcano, where the light-minded babbling brooks
originating from the snows of the Ash Mountains turn into staid, respectable canals and then
subside quietly into the pulsing heat of the Mordor plain, lies the oasis of Gorgoroth. For
ages they would gather two annual crops of cotton, rice, dates and grapes here, while the
handiwork of local weavers and weapon-makers was prized throughout Middle Earth. Of
course, the nomadic Orocuens have always looked with scorn on their tribesmen who chose
the life of a farmer or a craftsman: everybody knows that the only occupation worthy of a
man is cattle-breeding; that is, if you don't count robbing caravans. This attitude, however,
had never prevented them from regularly driving their flocks to the markets of Gorgoroth,
where the sweet-talking Umbarian merchants who quickly came to dominate all local trade
would invariably fleece them. Those crafty fellows, ever ready to risk their heads for a
handful of silver, drove their caravans throughout the East, not spurning either slave trade or
smuggling, or even plain robbery, when convenient. However, their main source of income
had always been the export of rare metals, mined in abundance from the Ash Mountains by
the stocky unsmiling Trolls - unrivaled miners and smelters, who later monopolized all
stonemasonry in the Oasis, too. Life side by side had long trained the sons of all three

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peoples to eye the neighbors' daughters with more interest than their own, to make fun of
each other ("An Orocuen, an Umbarian, and a Troll walk into a bar ..."), and to defend the
Ash Mountain passes and the Morannon against the Western barbarians together.

This, then, was the yeast on which Barad-diir rose six centuries ago, that amazing city
of alchemists and poets, mechanics and astronomers, philosophers and physicians, the heart
of the only civilization in Middle Earth to bet on rational knowledge and bravely pitch its
barely adolescent technology against ancient magic. The shining tower of the Barad-dur
citadel rose over the plains of Mordor almost as high as Orodruin like a monument to Man -
free Man who had politely but firmly declined the guardianship of the Dwellers on High and
started living by his own reason. It was a challenge to the bone-headed aggressive West,
which was still picking lice in its log 'castles' to the monotonous chanting of scalds
extolling the wonders of never-existing Numenor. It was a challenge to the East, buckling
under the load of its own wisdom, where Yin and Yang had long ago consumed each other,
producing only the refined static beauty of the Garden of Thirteen Stones. It was also a
challenge to certain others, for the wry intellectuals of the Mordor Academy, unbeknownst
to them, had come right up to the line beyond which the growth of their power promised to
become both irreversible and uncontrollable.

. . . And Haladdin was walking the streets he had known since childhood - from the
three worn stone steps of his parents' house in the cul-de-sac behind the Old Observatory,
past the plane trees of the King's Boulevard, which ends at the ziggurat with its Hanging
Gardens - towards the squat building of the University. It was there that his work had
several times granted him a moment of the highest happiness known to man: when you hold
like a hatchling in the palm of your hand a Truth so far revealed only to you, and it makes
you richer and more magnanimous than all the rulers of the world . . . And a bottle of fizzy
Niimen wine was making rounds to the din of many voices, foam sliding down the sides of
mismatched mugs and glasses to the merry oaths of the drinkers, and the entire April night
was still ahead, with its unending arguments over science, poetry, cosmology, and science
again ... And Sonya was looking at him with those enormous dry eyes - only the TroUish
girls' eyes sometimes have this fleeting shade of color - dark grey? transparent brown? -
and making a valiant effort to smile: "Halik, dear, I don't want to be a burden" - and he
wanted to cry from the tenderness overflowing his soul.

But the wings of the dream were already carrying him back to the night desert,
amazing to any novice with the improbable diversity of its inhabitants, who literally drop
through the earth with the first ray of the sun. Tzerlag had told him that this desert, like any
other, had been forever divided into plots: every saxaul grove, every patch of prickly grass,
every spot of edible lichen {manna) had its owner. The Orocuen easily named the clans
owning the dells through which they were making their way now, and could precisely detect
their boundaries, clearly relying on some clues visible only to him, rather than the little aho
stone pyramids. The only property held in common in these parts were the cattle watering
holes - large depressions in the sand filled with bitter, salty, but still potable water.
Haladdin was most amazed by the tzandoi system of adiabatic water collectors, which he
had only read about before. He admired the unknown genius who had first figured out that
one scourge of the desert - the nightly cold - can overcome the other one - aridness: quickly
cooling stones act as condensers, 'squeezing' water out of seemingly absolutely dry air.

Of course, the sergeant did not know the word 'adiabatic' (he did not read much, not
finding it much use or fun), but some of the collectors they passed were his handiwork.

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Tzerlag had built his first tzandoi when he was five and was devastated when it had not a
drop of water the next morning. He had figured out the problem himself (the stone pile was
too small) and first felt the pride of a Master. Strangely, he felt no inclination to tend cattle
and did it only when he had to, whereas it was nearly impossible to drag him away from
tackle shops and such. The relatives would shake their heads in disapproval - "just like a
townie!" - but his father, observing his constant tinkering, made him learn to read. That was
how he got to be a mantzag - a traveling craftsman; moving from camp to camp, in two
years he could make anything. Once in the Army (nomads were usually assigned to either
light cavalry or ranger units), he fought as meticulously as he used to build tzandois or
assemble bactrian tackle.

To be honest, he was sick and tired of this war. Sure, the Throne, the Motherland and
all that ... but the generals kept doing things whose stupidity was obvious even to a
sergeant. One needed no time in a military academy to understand that; the common sense
of a craftsman (so he thought) was quite enough. For example, after the disaster at Pelennor
his scouting company was assigned, among other units that could still fight, to cover the
retreat (or, rather, the headlong flight) of the main forces. The scouts were told to make
their stand without long spears in the middle of a plain, and the elite rangers, each with at
least two dozen successful missions in enemy territory under his belt, died senselessly under
the hoofs of Rohan cavalry, who did not even have time to see who they were trampling.

Tzerlag decided then that the generals were beyond help; to hell with them and this
war! Enough of this, guys - we shall learn war no more! Thank the One, they had made it
out of that damned forest, where you can't even get a bearing in cloudy weather and every
scratch begins to rot immediately, so now, home in the desert, they'll be fine. In his dreams
the sergeant was already at the familiar Teshgol camp, which was now only one good
night's march away. He pictured clearly to himself how he would unhurriedly determine
what needs fixing, then they'd be invited to the table, and after the second mug the hostess
would casually steer the conversation to the difficulties of maintaining a household without
a man around, while the grimy-faced youngsters (there's four of them there, or was it five?)
would be circling around and clamoring to touch his weapons . . . The other thought he had
while drifting off to sleep was: wouldn't it be nice to find out who the hell wanted this war
and catch up with him in a dark alley . . .

No, seriously - who wanted it?

Chapter 3

Middle Earth, the arid belt
A natural history brief

Two types of climate epochs follow one another in the history of any world, including
Middle Earth - pluvial and arid; the growth and shrinking of polar ice caps follow a single
rhythm, which is a sort of a pulse of a planet. Those natural cycles are concealed from the
eyes of historians and scalds by the kaleidoscopic variety of peoples and cultures, although it
is those very changes that largely create this kaleidoscope. Climate change can play a larger
role in the history of a people, or even a civilization, than the deeds of great reformers or a
devastating invasion. Well, in Middle Earth the Third Age was drawing to a close together
with a pluvial climate epoch. The paths of moisture-laden cyclones kept bending towards
the poles, and the trade wind belts, covering the thirties' latitudes in both hemispheres, were
rapidly turning to deserts. Not that long before the Mordor plains had been a savannah and

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actual juniper and cypress forests covered the slopes of Orodruin; now the desert was
relentlessly encroaching upon the dry steppes hugging the foot of the mountain ranges,
consuming acre after acre. The snow line in the Ash Mountains kept creeping higher, and
the streams feeding the oasis of Gorgoroth more and more resembled a child dying from
some unknown disease. Had the local civilization been a bit more primitive and the country
poorer, that is how it would have continued; the process would have taken centuries, and
something always comes up over such stretches of time. However, Mordor was powerful
beyond measure, so the powers-that-be decided not to "wait for nature's mercies," but rather
to set up an extensive irrigation system, using the tributaries of the Sea of Niimen.

An explanation is in order here. Irrigation agriculture in arid regions is very
productive, but has to be conducted with utmost care. The problem is high salinity of the
groundwater; the main challenge is to avoid bringing it up to the surface, God forbid, lest it
salt the topsoil. This is precisely what will happen if your irrigation dumps too much water
on the fields and the soil capillaries fill up enough to connect groundwater to the surface.
Capillary forces and surface evaporation will immediately begin pumping that water up to
the surface (exactly like oil going up the wick of a lit lamp), and this process is irreversible;
in a blink of an eye your field will turn into a lifeless salt pan. The saddest part is that once
you screw up, there is no way to push that salt back down.

There are two ways to avoid this calamity. One is to water very sparingly, so that the
water in the shallow capillaries does not connect with the groundwater. Another possibility
is the so-called flushing cycle, whereby you cause a regular flooding that carries the
constantly upwelling salt away to the sea or some other terminal drain. This, however, can
only be done in the valleys of large rivers that flood regularly - it is that spring flood that
washes away the salt accumulated over the previous year. This is precisely what happens,
for example, in Khand, and it was precisely that irrigation model that the inexperienced
Mordorian engineers had copied in a sincere belief that the quality of irrigation is
determined by the number of cubic furlongs of earth moved.

But it is impossible to establish a flushing cycle in the closed basin of Mordor, since
there are no major rivers flowing through it, and the only terminal drain is the Sea of Niirnen
- the very same Niirnen whose tributaries got diverted to irrigate far-flung fields. The
negligible elevation difference meant that there was no way to create anything like a flood in
those canals, so there was nothing to flush the salt and nowhere to flush it. After a few years
of unprecedented bumper crops the inevitable happened - huge tracts of land were rapidly
salted, and all attempts to establish drainage failed due to high groundwater levels. The end
result was an enormous waste of resources and massive damage to the country's economy
and ecology. The Umbarian system of minimal irrigation would have suited Mordor just
fine (and been a lot cheaper to boot), but this opportunity had been irretrievably lost now.
The masterminds of the irrigation project and its executives were sentenced to twenty-five
years in lead mines, but, predictably, that did not help anyone.

This event had been a major setback, but still not a catastrophe. By that time Mordor
was deservedly being called "smithy of the nations," and it could trade its manufactured
goods for any amounts of food from Khand and Umbar. Trading caravans went back and
forth through the Ithilien Crossroads day and night, and more and more voices in Barad-diir
were saying that the country has had enough tinkering with agriculture, which was nothing
but a net loss anyway, and the way to go was to develop what nobody else had - namely,
metallurgy and chemistry. Indeed, the industrial revolution was well underway; steam

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engines toiled away in mines and factories, while the early aeronautic successes and
experiments with electricity were the talk of the educated classes. A universal literacy law
had just been passed, and His Majesty Sauron the VIII has declared at a session of
parliament (with his usual ton-of-bricks humor) that he intended to equate truancy and
treason. The excellent work of an experienced diplomatic corps and a powerful intelligence
apparatus permitted a drastic reduction of the professional army, so that it was not a major
burden on the economy.

But it was exactly at that time that the words that changed the entire history of Middle
Earth were said; strangely, they repeated almost exactly a prophetic utterance made in
another World regarding a very different country: "A nation that is unable to feed itself and
is dependent on food imports caimot be considered a formidable foe."

Chapter 4

Arnor, the Tower of Amon Sul
November, year 3010 of the Third Age

Those words were uttered by a tall white-bearded old man in a silvery-grey cloak with
its hood thrown back; he stood with his fingertips resting on the surface of a black oval
table, surrounded by four people in high-backed armchairs, half in shadow. There were
signs that his speech had been a success and the Council was on his side, so now the
piercing dark blue eyes of the standing man, which contrasted starkly with the parchment-
yellow skin of his face, were focused on only one of the four - the one he would have to
battle now. That man, huddling tightly in his blinding-white cloak, sat at a slight distance,
as if already separating himself from the rest of the Council; he appeared to have a strong
fever. Presently he straightened out, clutching the chair arms, and his deep and smooth
voice sounded under the dark ceiling:

"Tell me - have you any pity on them?"

"On whom?"

"On the people, Gandalf, the people! As I understand it, you have just sentenced the
civilization of Mordor to death, in the name of the higher good. But any civilization is its
carriers, first and foremost. Therefore, they will have to be exterminated, completely, with
no chance of recovery. Right?"

"Pity is a poor adviser, Saruman. Haven't you looked in the Mirror with the rest of
us?" Gandalf pointed to the large object in the middle of the table, which looked most like a
huge bowl full of quicksilver. "There are many roads to the future, but whichever of them
Mordor takes, no later than three centuries hence it will access the forces of Nature that no
one will be able to harness. Would you like to once again watch them turn the entire Middle
Earth and Far West into ashes in a blink of an eye?"

"You are correct, Gandalf, and it would be dishonest to deny such a possibility. But
then you should exterminate the Dwarves, too: they had already wakened the Terror of the
Deep once, and all our magic was barely sufficient to prevent it from escaping. You know
that those bearded tightwads are mulishly stubborn and not inclined to learn from their
mistakes ..."

"All right, let us not speak of what is possible, and speak only of the inevitable. If you
do not wish to look into the Mirror, look at the smoke rising from their coal furnaces and
copper refineries. Walk the salt pans into which they had turned the lands west of Niimen
and try to find one blade of living grass on those half-a-thousand square miles. But make

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sure not to do it on a windy day, when salty dust rises like a wall over the plain of Mordor,
choking everything in its path . . . And note that they have done all that barely out of the
crib; what do you think they will do later?"

"Gandalf, a child is always a disaster in the house. First dirty diapers, then broken
toys; later, the family clock taken apart; to say nothing of what happens when he grows up a
bit. A house without children, on the other hand, is a model of cleanliness and order, yet
somehow its owners are usually not too happy about that, especially as they age."

"Saruman, ever have I been amazed by your cunning ability to turn another's words
inside out, and disprove obvious truths via sly casuistry. But - by the Halls of Valinor! - it
will not work now. The Middle Earth is a multitude of peoples living in harmony with
nature and the heritage of their ancestors now. These peoples and their entire way of life are
now under a dire threat, and my duty is to avert it at all costs. A wolf plundering my sheep
has its own reasons for doing just that, but I have no intent of understanding his situation!"

"I am, by the way, no less concerned with the fate of the Gondorians and the Rohirrim
than you are, but I look further into the future. Do you, a member of the White Council, not
know that the totality of magical knowledge by its very nature can not grow beyond what
was once received from Aule and Orome? You can lose it quicker or slower, but no one has
the power to reverse the loss. Every generation of wizards is weaker than the previous one,
so sooner or later Men will face Nature alone. And then they will need Science and
Technology - provided you haven't eradicated those by then."

"They don't need your science, for it destroys the harmony of the World and dries up
the souls of men!"

"Strange is the talk of Soul and Harmony on the lips of a man who is about to start a
war. As for science, it is dangerous not to them, but to you - or, rather, to your warped self-
esteem. What are we wizards but consumers of that which our predecessors had created,
while they are creators of new knowledge? We face the Past, they face the Future. You
have once chosen magic, and therefore will never cross the boundaries set by the Valar,
whereas in their science the growth of knowledge - and hence, power - is truly unlimited.
You are consumed by the worst kind of envy - that of a craftsman for an artist . . . Well, I
suppose this is a weighty enough reason for murder; you're neither the first nor the last."

"You don't believe this yourself," Gandalf shrugged calmly.

"No, I suppose I do not," Saruman shook his head sadly. "You know, those who are
motivated by greed, lust for power, or wounded pride are half-way tolerable, at least they
feel pangs of conscience sometimes. But there is nothing more fearsome than a bright-eyed
enthusiast who had decided to benefit mankind; such a one can drown the world in blood
without hesitation. Those guys' favorite saying is: 'There are things more important than
peace and more terrible than war' - 1 believe you've heard this one, no?"

"I accept the responsibility, Saruman; History will vindicate me."

"Oh, I have no doubt that it will; after all, this history will be written by those who
will win under your banner. There are tried and true recipes for that: cast Mordor as the Evil
Empire that wished to enslave the entire Middle Earth, and its inhabitants as non-human
monsters that rode werewolves and ate human flesh ... I am not talking about history now,
but rather yourself. Allow me to repeat my rude question about the people who hold the
knowledge of the civilization of Mordor. That they will have to be killed, quite literally, is
beyond doubt - 'uproot the weed entirely' - otherwise the whole endeavor is meaningless. I
would like to know, then, whether you - yes, you personally - will participate in the

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weeding; will you cut off their heads yourself? . . . Silence? Such are ever your ways, you
benefactors of humanity! Craft the Final Solution to the Mordorian problem, sure, but when
it's time to implement it, you always hide in the bushes. It's executioners you need, so that
you can later point at them in disgust: it's all their excesses ..."

"Drop the demagoguery, Saruman," one of those seated, clad in a blue cloak, cut in
abruptly in annoyance, "and better look in the Mirror. The danger is obvious even to a blind
man! If we don't stop Mordor now, we will not be able to do it ever: in fifty years or so they
will complete this 'industrial revolution' of theirs, figure out that saltpeter mixtures are good
for things other than fireworks, and that will be the end of everything. Their armies will
become invincible, while the other countries will fall over themselves copying their
'achievements,' with predictable consequences . . . Speak, if you have something relevant to
say!"

"While I wear the white cloak of the Head of the Council, you will have to listen to
everything I have to say," the other replied curtly. "Actually, I am not going to mention that

by deciding to determine the fates of the World you four are usurping a right that wizards
never had; 1 can see that this would be useless. I will therefore speak in terms you can
understand."

The body language of his opponents vividly conveyed indignation, but Saruman has
already decided to abandon all diplomacy.

"Strictly from a technical standpoint, Gandalf's plan to strangle Mordor through a
prolonged war and a food blockade seems sound; however, it has a weakness. In order to
win such a difficult war, the anti-Mordor coalition will need a powerful ally, and so the plan
proposes to wake the Powers that have been slumbering since the previous, pre-human Era;
to wit, the inhabitants of the Enchanted Forests. This is madness all by itself, for those
Powers have never served anybody but themselves, but even so it's not enough for you. To
ensure victory, you have decided to turn the Mirror over to them for the duration of the war,
since only participants have the right to use it to plan military action. That is madness
squared, but I am prepared to consider even that option, as long as colleague Gandalf can
inteUigently answer just one question: how does he propose to reclaim the Mirror
afterwards?"

Gandalf waved his hand dismissively. "I believe that problems ought to be resolved as
they come up. Besides, why should we assume that they will not want to return the Mirror?
What the hell do they need it for?"

Silence fell; indeed, Saruman had failed to anticipate such monumental stupidity. All
of them, then, consider it proper ... It seemed to him that he was floundering in the icy
water of a March ice-hole: another moment, and the current will drag him under the edge.

"Radagast! Would you like to say anything?" It sounded like a plea for help.

The brown-clad figure gave a start, like a pupil caught sneaking a look at a cheat
sheet, and awkwardly tried to cover something on the table with a sleeve. There was an
indignant screech, and a baby squirrel that Radagast must have been playing with all along
raced up his sleeve. It sat on his shoulder, but the embarrassed forest wizard whispered
something to it, bending a bushy grey eyebrow, and the animal obediently slunk somewhere
inside the folds of his garment.

"Dearest Saruman . . . please forgive an old man, but . . . erm ... I wasn't listening all
that closely here ... Just don't fight, all right? I mean, if even we start to bicker, what's
gonna happen to the world, eh? See . . . And as for those folks from the Enchanted Forests, I

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mean, aren't you . . . you know ... a bit hard on them? I remember seeing them when I was
young, from afar, for sure, but they seemed all right by my reckoning; they have their own
weirdness, but who doesn't? Also they're always at one with the birds and the beasties, not
like your Mordorians ... So I reckon, it might be fine, eh?"

So that's it, concluded Saruman and slowly ran his palm across his face, as if trying to
remove a spider's web of enormous weariness. The only one who might have supported
him. He had no strength left to fight; it's over, he's under the ice.

"You are not just in the minority; you are alone, Saruman. Of course, all your
suggestions are of enormous value to us." Gandalf's voice was fairly dripping with false
respect now. "Let us discuss right away the question of the Mirror - it is, indeed, a
complicated question ..."

"This is your problem now, Gandalf," Saruman answered quietly but firmly, undoing
the mithril clasp at his throat. "You have long sought the White Cloak - here, take it. Do
whatever you think necessary, but I quit your Council."

"Then your staff will lose power, you hear!" Gandalf yelled at his back; it was clear
that he was stunned and no longer understood his perennial rival.

Saruman turned around and took one last look at the shadowy hall of the White
Council. An edge of the white cloak spilled down off the armchair to the floor, like moon-
silvered water from a fountain; the mithril clasp sent him a farewell flash and winked out.
Radagast, who must have risen to follow him, was frozen in mid-stride with arms spread out
awkwardly; the wizard suddenly looked small and miserable, like a child in the middle of a
parents' quarrel. It was then that he uttered a phrase that amazingly matched the one spoken
on a similar occasion in another World:

"What you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake."

In a few weeks Mordor' s intelligence reported from the edges of the Northern woods
the sudden appearance of 'Elves' - slender golden-haired creatures with mellifluous voices
and permafrost in their eyes.

Chapter 5

Middle Earth, the War of the Ring
Historical brief

Should our reader be minimally acquainted with analysis of major military campaigns
and examine the map of Middle Earth, he would easily ascertain that all actions of both new
coalitions (Mordor-Isengard and Gondor-Rohan) were dictated by merciless strategic logic,
undergirded by Mordor' s dread of being cut off from its food sources. Through Gandalf s
efforts the center of Middle Earth turned into a highly unstable geopolitical 'sandwich' with
Mordor and Isengard the bread and Gondor and Rohan the bacon. Most ironic was the fact
that the Mordor coalition, which wanted nothing but the preservation of the status quo, was
ideally positioned for an offensive war (whereby it could immediately force its opponents to
fight on two fronts), but highly unfavorably for a defensive one (in which the united
opponents could conduct a blitzkrieg, crushing foes one by one).

However, Saruman lost no time, either. He visited Theoden and Denethor (the kings
of Rohan and Gondor) and used his personal charm and eloquence to convince them that
Isengard and Barad-diir wanted nothing but peace. In addition, he partially revealed to
Denethor and Sauron the secret of the two palantiri that have been kept in both capitals
since time immemorial, and taught them the use of those ancient magic crystals as a means

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of direct communication; this simple move did much to build trust between the neighboring
sovereigns. An Isengard consulate was established in Edoras at King Theoden's court; it
was headed by Grima - an excellent diplomat, experienced spy, and master of courtly
intrigue. For quite some time Saruman and Gandalf carefully jockeyed for position, strictly
in the area of dynastic relationships.

To wit, Theoden's only son Theodred, known for his sober mind and temperance, was
killed in the North under suspicious circumstances, allegedly in an Ore raid. As a result, the
new heir was the king's nephew Eomer - a brilliant general, the darling of the officer corps,
and, obviously, one of the 'war party' leaders. In a setback to Gandalf, however, he began
'measuring the drapes of the palace' way too openly with his friends. Grima, who had an
excellent intelligence network, had no trouble putting together a good collection of all the
drunken boasts and submitting it to Theoden through a proxy. Consequently, Eomer was
excluded from active politics to such an extent that Grima stopped paying any attention to
him (which turned out later to have been a big mistake). In Gondor, Saruman succeeded in
undermining the position of Prince Boromir, another well-known brawler, and getting him
removed from the court; the prince left in a huff, seeking adventure in northern lands (with
rather unpleasant consequences, but again later). In general, the first round went to
Saruman.

Nevertheless, although all three kings understood clearly that "a bad peace is better
than a good war," the state of affairs remained highly unstable. The food situation in
Mordor continued to deteriorate slowly but surely, so the security of the trade routes to the
South through Ithilien became what is known as "national paranoia." In such circumstances
the smallest provocation can cascade, and there was no lack of those. So after several
caravans in a row were wiped out near Ithilien Crossroads by people who came from
nowhere but wore green cloaks of Gondor (although they spoke with a pronounced Northern
accent), there was a full-fledged reaction.

Saruman immediately contacted Sauron via his palantir; he cajoled, pleaded, and
threatened, but to no avail. Logical arguments did not work any more, and the king, whose
power had always been rather nominal, could do nothing about the fear-crazed storekeepers
sitting in the parliament. So it was that on the morrow of April 14"^, 3016 of the Third Era
the army of Mordor, two hundred light cavalry strong, entered the demilitarized (under a
recent treaty with Gondor) Ithilien "to provide security against robbers to the trade routes."
In response, Gondor mobilized its army and took control of the Osgiliath Crossing. The trap
was sprung.

Mordor then made its second mistake ... although, as it always is with strategic
decisions, that could only be judged post factum: had the move worked, as it had every
chance of doing, it would no doubt have been recorded as brilliant. An attempt was made to
split the enemy coalition by getting Rohan out of the spat over Ithilien, which was of no real
concern to them. To that end, four best battalions of Mordor' s army were sent over Anduin.
This expeditionary force was supposed to covertly travel over the northern edge of the
Plains of Rohan, where intelligence reported no regular armed presence, and join the army
of Isengard. The risk was great, but smaller detachments have already traversed that route
without incident. Indeed, had a strike force capable of reaching Edoras in five days' march
been established in the Rohirrim's backyard, without a doubt the latter would have
concentrated on guarding the exit from Helm's Deep and abandoned any thought of a raid to
the South. Mordor could then seek a compromise over Ithilien with the suddenly lonely

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Gondor.

That was when the Mirror first made a difference; imagine a contemporary fast-
moving war in which one side has the advantage of spy satellites. Eomer, practically under
house arrest at the time, received comprehensive information on Mordor's move from
Gandalf and realized that a general only gets such a chance once in a lifetime. Taking
advantage of Theoden's illness and his enormous popularity among the troops, he roused the
elite Rohan army units and led them north. At that point he had nothing to lose; failure
would no doubt have cost him his head for treason.

But the Mirror spoke truly. Five days later the armored cavalry of Rohan swiftly
struck Mordor's expeditionary force out of Fangom Wood; the enemy had no time to even
break out of the marching formation. The sudden attack was devastating; nevertheless, a
significant part of the heavy infantry (mostly Trolls) did manage to form into its famous
'granite blocks' and fought back for several hours, taking a large toll on the attackers. When
night fell, they tried to move into Fangom, hoping to escape their mounted pursuers in the
thicket, but all fell to the poisoned arrows of the Elvish bowmen in their tree perches.

The Rohirrim paid dearly for their victory, but the elite of the Mordorian army was no
more; only the light Orocuen cavalry managed to escape. Eomer triumphantly returned to
Edoras, and Theoden had to pretend that all was going according to a pre-existing plan. At
the same time the king was publicly presented with evidence that the Isengard consul was
spying on Rohan; although nearly all diplomats have been doing so since the world was
created, Theoden now had to support the war party and had no choice but to declare Grima
persona non grata.

In the meantime, Rohan troops, still drunk with the Fangom victory, filled up the

palace square, clanging swords against shields, and demanded of their beloved Eomer that
he lead them forward, no matter where. The general raised his sword high, as if to stab the
setting sun, and cried: "To Isengard!" - whereupon Gandalf, standing not far away in the
shadow of a counterfort, knew that he had eamed some rest. His work was done.

Chapter 6

Meanwhile in the south a 'phony war' went on. Although the Osgiliath Crossing had
changed hands three times in two years, neither of the foes had made any attempts to follow
up on their successes and take the fighting to the other side of Anduin. The fighting
consisted of a series of 'noble contests' - something between a gladiator show and a
knightly tournament. The best warriors were known by name on both sides, and bets were
made regardless of the personal allegiances of the bettors; the officers competed in civility
and never failed to congratulate an opponent on his monarch's birthday or some other state
occasion before running him through. The only dissonant note in this exalted symphony of
courteous killing was sounded by the bands of Diinadan 'rangers,' gathered here like flies to
carrion. Those mostly "harassed enemy communications" - or, to put it plainly, robbed
caravans. The Mordorians considered them bandits rather than enemy combatants, to be
dealt with harshly in wartime, and hung not a few of those 'rangers' off the sprawling oaks
along the Ithilien highway. The Northerners paid back in the same coin when they could.
No wonder that working men like Tzerlag saw this 'war' as total baloney.

The Battle of Fangorn changed the situation drastically. Even prior to it the armies of
Mordor and Isengard numbered no more than a third of the combined forces of Gondor and
Rohan. After the task force perished, Mordor had no defensive strategies left; it had no

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chance of holding Ithilien with the forces it had. Sure, those were more than sufficient to
hold the fastnesses in the passes of the Ash and Shadow Mountains, but what good was that?
Gondor and Rohan had no need to storm those citadels; it was quite enough to simply
establish a blockade and wait for Mordor to surrender or starve to death. The powers-that-
be in Barad-diir considered the situation soberly and realized that they had only one chance
to break this stranglehold.

While Isengard remained unconquered in Rohan's rear, the Rohirrim would not risk
moving their army to the southeast, beyond Anorien. Although Isengard' s army was small,
taking the city was no easy task, since primitive Rohan had no decent siege engines.
Therefore, Mordor had some time, at least six months. Under cover of the low-intensity war
in Ithilien, this time had to be used to gather all of the country's resources into a fist -
mustering all men, hiring mercenaries, and requesting assistance from allies (the Easterlings
and especially the Haradrim). Then this entire force had to suddenly crush Condor's army
in a blitzkrieg while it was temporarily deprived of Rohan's aid. Afterwards, Mordor would
conclude the war quickly under the well-known 'land for peace' scenario, keeping control of
the Ithilien Crossroads. The risk was huge, but there was no other choice!

The Mirror gave this plan a decent chance of success. Gandalf was extremely
concerned because the war in the northwest was not going as well as he expected. Eomer
made a quick march west and did manage to capture the strategically important Helm's
Deep after a bloody battle at Hornburg, breaking into Isen's valley. But it was a pyrrhic
victory; the attackers' losses were such that there was no question of storming Isengard.
The only option was a siege, which was what Mordor was counting on.

The Elves found a solution. When the Rohirrim approached Isengard, they were
stunned to behold a large lake in its place, the Orthanc tower sticking out of its middle
absurdly like a log out of a swamp. The Elves had solved the problem radically by
breaching the dams of the Isen the previous night, drowning the sleeping city with its
defenders. Horrified Gandalf and hotly angry Eomer (the riches of Isengard, which were the
reason for this campaign, were now at the bottom of an artificial lake) went to visit the Elves
to settle a few things.

They came back after dark much subdued, silent, avoiding looking at each other.
Surprised officers asked Eomer whether they should celebrate victory; the general snapped:
"Whatever," went to his tent and uncharacteristically drank himself into a stupor all alone.
Gandalf, for some reason of his own, hurried to Orthanc and tried to talk to Saruman; after
an icy rebuff he slumped listlessly at the water's edge, watching the moon's reflection.
When all is said and done, the Elves are probably correct - the most important goal right
now is to free up forces in the north and lead the Rohirrim south . . . But the Mirror . . . Was
Saruman The Fastidious right back then? ... Better not to think about it, there's no way
back now anyway ... And that Diinadan ranger - what's his name, Aragorn? Arathom?
What do the Elves need him for, all of a sudden?

All the while the war in the south was picking up steam. Of course, it is impossible to
hide troop movements on the scale of those started by Mordor from enemy intelligence,
even if those did not possess the Mirror. Gondor also began moving its allied forces towards
Minas Tirith from Anfalas, Ethir, and Dol Amroth, but Mordor deployed first. After a
successful feint to the north (towards Lorien and further to Esgaroth) had tied up most of the
Elvish army there, the main force of Mordor' s army slammed Gondor. Osgiliath was taken
on the march; six days later, having overrun and scattered the more numerous but badly

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positioned units of the army of Gondor, the victorious South Army camped with all of its
siege engines at the walls of Minas Tirith, which was still unprepared for a siege. The
formidable Pelennor fortifications have been stormed immediately prior to that in only a
couple of hours. So when the palantir in Denethor's quarters suddenly came to life and
Sauron offered an immediate peace in exchange for Mordor's right to maintain a limited
military presence in Ithilien, the king agreed right away, reasoning quite correctly that he
was getting a heifer for a chick. Then, something strange happened.

The next day a man in a white cloak appeared in Sauron' s palantir. Introducing
himself as the military commandant of Minas Tirith, he said that the signing of the peace
treaty would have to wait for a few days, due to a sudden illness of the king of Gondor.
Why isn't Prince Faramir conducting these negotiations? Oh, the prince is literally hovering
between life and death, having been struck by a poisoned arrow. What do you mean -
"whose?!" The Mordorian army has no poisoned arrows? Really? Hmm ... Honestly, he
doesn't know. As for Prince Boromir, unfortunately, he is believed to have been killed
somewhere in the North a few months ago. In other words, let's just wait a week or so,
while the king gets better; yes, a mere formality.

So the Mordorians waited. The war is over, soon we'll go home. Sure, discipline is
important, but how about a little celebration of the victory, eh? After all, even if Isengard
falls and the Rohirrim go south, Saruman will let us know, so even if worse comes to worse,
there will be plenty of time to prepare a welcome party ... Little did they know that
Saruman' s palantir was only silent because defecting Grima took it along as a 'dowry,' and
Rohan's army was only a three days' march off.

Chapter 7

Gondor, the Pelennor Fields
March 15, 3019

The Mordorians only realized that they had been had when the brown splotch of

Rohan's army began spreading through the northern edge of the white fog blanketing the
Pelennor Fields, while Gondor' s troops poured through the opened gates of Minas Tirith,
quickly congealing into battle formations. Fury tripled the strength of the duped 'victors;'
they hit the Gondorians hard enough to send them flying before the Rohirrim made it to the
battlefield, almost gaining the city gates in hot pursuit. The armored cavalry of Rohan, tired
by the long march, did not live up to expectations; it turned out to be less than easily
maneuverable, so light Orocuen cavalry calmly showered it with arrows, easily avoiding a
head-on clash. Although the South Army of Mordor was outnumbered two to one and
surprised to boot, the scales began tipping in its favor.

It was then that fresh forces landed in the Mordorians' rear at the southeast edge of the
Pelennor Fields from ships that had just gone up the Anduin. The landed force was small,
and the Mordorian commander did not pay much attention to the first panicked reports:
"those can't be killed!" In the meantime the battle intensified. On the northern edge of the
field the Umbarian bowmen and deftly maneuvering Orocuen cavalry completely tied up the
armor of Rohan; in the west the mumakil of the Haradrim trampled and scattered Gondorian
infantry once again, while the engineers smashed the famed (supposedly mithril) gates of the
city to bits in less than ten minutes and began catapult bombardment of the inner ramparts.
Only in the southeast was something alarming happening: the troops that had landed from
the ships were moving forward like a hot knife through butter. When the Commander-South

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got to the site of the breach, this was what he saw.

A phalanx six men deep and about a hundred across was moving unhurriedly across
the field in total silence. The warriors were dressed in grey cloaks with hoods covering their
faces, and were armed only with long narrow Elvish swords; they had no armor, no helmets,
not even shields. There was something weird about the look of the soldiers in the forward
rank, and it took the commander a few seconds to understand what that was: they were
literally studded with three-foot Umbarian arrows, but kept advancing just the same. They
were commanded by a horseman in their rear, wearing a tattered camouflage cloak of a
Diinadan ranger, his faceplate closed. The sun was almost directly overhead, yet the
horseman cast a long coal-black shadow, while the phalanx cast no shadow at all.

An aide reported to Commander-South that neither cavalry nor the mumakil were able
to breach the ranks of those warriors - the animals became wildly uncontrollable on
approach. In the meantime, the invulnerable phalanx kept pushing northwest - fortunately,
rather slowly and too directly. The TroUish armored infantry managed to slow it down some
while the engineers moved two batteries of field catapults from the walls of the city. The
Commander's reckoning was precise: at the moment he anticipated the entire phalanx went
into a large shallow depression, and the catapults placed on its edge opened up withering fire
at pre-calculated distances and angles. The three-bucket naphtha jars turned the hollow into
an erupting volcano, and a victory cheer went up to the cold March sky.

It ceased just as quickly, for the ranks of the grey warriors emerged again out of the
bursting bubbles of orange naphtha flames. Their cloaks were smoldering and smoking,
some were ablaze; the shafts of the arrows studding them were burning, too. Here one of
those living torches - the fourth from the right in the forward rank - halted and started
breaking into pieces, raising a fountain of sparks; his mates immediately closed ranks. One
could see that the bombardment had taken a toll on the greys: at least fifty such firebrands
were scattered in the middle of the depression, where the brunt hit. Some of those kept
trying to get up and walk.

The general slammed the pommel with his fist - let the pain bring him back to the real
world and banish all traces of this nightmare from his brain . . . No such luck. He is still
standing at the edge of a burned-out hollow on the Pelennor Fields, and his warriors, ever
ready to follow him into fire and water, will break into flight at any moment, for this is
simply beyond their ken! Without thinking any more, he thundered: "Mordor and the Eye!"
and, scimitar raised high, spurred his horse towards the right flank of the grey ranks - for it
was there that the closed-helmeted Dunadan has moved now, for some reason of his own.

When the Commander-South neared the phalanx, his mount reared and almost tossed
him from the saddle. Now he could see the enemy warriors clearly and knew that the
numerous 'panic-mongers' were right. These were, indeed, the living dead: respectable-
looking parchment- skinned mummies with eyes and mouths carefully sewn shut, horribly
bloated drowned men dripping greenish goo, skeletons covered with tatters of blackened
skin, cause of death now indeterminable to the best pathologist. The corpses stared at him,
and a chillingly terrifying low growl went up; such is the growl of a sheepdog about to go
for the enemy's throat. The general had no time to be terrified, though - a dozen grey
figures have already detached themselves from the rear right corner of the formation, clearly
intending to block his way to the indecisively halted Dunadan, so he spurred the stallion
again.

He broke through the line of the dead with surprising ease: they turned out to be rather

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slow and no match for a fighter of his caliber one-on-one. A hanged man with a lolling
tongue and bulging eyes had barely raised his sword when Commander-South sliced through
his sword-arm with a lightning-fast horizontal flick of his wrist and then cut the enemy
almost in half from the right shoulder down. The others backed away for some reason and
made no more attempts to stop him. Meanwhile the Diinadan was clearly deciding whether
he should fight or run, and seeing that he had no chance of escaping, dismounted decisively
and drew his Elvish sword. So that's how you want it, eh? Fight on foot - fine. Shouting
the traditional: "Defend yourself, fair sir!" the commander of the South Army jumped
nimbly off his horse, thinking in passing that this northern bandit hardly deserved to be
called 'sir.' The phalanx had already moved away a hundred yards or so and kept going;
seven of the undead stood in the distance, not taking their unseeing eyes off the duelists; a
ringing silence fell.

He suddenly realized with a clarity that amazed him that this one duel would
determine the outcome not only of this battle, but the fate of the entire Middle Earth for

many years to come. His inner voice then said in an eerily pleading tone: "Think this
through, while there's still time! Please!" - as if trying to warn him without knowing how.
But he had thought this through already! They are both lightly armored, so his curved
scimitar will have a clear advantage over any straight western sword; the guy doesn't seem
to be a leftie, so no surprises there; it would' ve been better to fight on horseback, but let's
not be greedy ... It's all set - a meal ready to eat, as the saying goes!

The Diinadan awaited him without trying to maneuver: knees slightly bent, upraised
sword held in both hands, hilt against the belt buckle; all his earlier indecisiveness was gone.
The general quickly approached to within about seven paces, right up to the maximum reach
of the northerner's blade, and started feinting: right, left, then his favorite distracting move -
a quick pass of the scimitar to the left hand and back . . .

A terrible blow in the back felled him. He managed to twist sideways ("Spine's still
there . . ."), lifted his head and thought distantly: yes, I have underestimated those deaders . . .
so they can move real fast and real silent when needed . . . northern bastard . . . Amazingly,
he managed to get up to one knee, using the scimitar as a crutch; the dead men, having
already surrounded him, stood still with swords raised, awaiting word from the ranger. The
latter was in no hurry; pushing the helmet to the back of his head and chewing on a straw, he
gazed at his fallen foe with interest. Then his calm soft voice broke the silence:

"Welcome, Commander- South! I knew that you would come for a one-on-one fight,
as is the custom by you nobles." His lips twisted in a smirk. "I was only concerned that you
wouldn't dismount, like I did. Had you kept to the saddle, it all could have been different . . .
I'm glad that I didn't overestimate you, fair sir."

"You cheated."

"You fool! I came here to win this war and the crown of Gondor, not some stupid
duel. As Tulkas is my witness, I have often played heads-or-tails with death, but always for
a goal, never for the hell of it."

"You cheated," repeated Commander-South, trying not to cough with the blood from
his pierced lung slowly pooling in his mouth. "Even the knights of the North will not shake
your hand."

"Of course they won't," laughed the Dunadan, "since they will be kneeling before the
new King of Gondor! I beat you in an honest fight, one on one - so it shall be written in all
the history books. As for you, even your name shall perish, I'll make sure of that.

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Actually," he stopped in midstride, hunting for the stirrup, "we can make it even more
interesting: let you be killed by a midget, some tiny little dwarf with hairy paws. Or by a
broad . . . yes, that's how we'll do it."

He mounted quickly, gestured once to his dead men and set the horse after the distant
phalanx. He turned back only once, checking in annoyance: are they catching up or what?
The corpses, though, were still standing in a circle, their swords rising and falling like
threshing flails.

Chapter 8

Meanwhile, the battle continued. True, the Mordorian troops had wavered and now
parted before the ranks of the undead without a fight, but there were no Western Coalition
troops in the southeastern part of the battlefield to take advantage of the breach made by
Aragom. Besides, the clash at the hollow had demonstrated that the grey warriors were not
totally invulnerable; they were hard but not impossible to kill. The phalanx, left without
guidance for a few minutes, kept going forward until by sheer accident it wandered into the
range of stationary long-range catapults trained on the citadel of Minas Tirith. The
Mordorian engineers lost no time turning these around and opening fire, this time with forty-
bucket incendiary naphtha barrels rather than three-bucket jars. Whipped by monstrous
fiery whirlwinds and not seeing the enemy (who was firing from a concealed position), the
phalanx kept going forward mindlessly, getting deeper into the killing zone with every step,
so that when Aragorn, catching up on a lathered horse, ordered an immediate retreat, it had
to traverse the same deadly terrain a second time.

This time the losses were so great that the Dunadan decided to rejoin the main forces
to the west before it was too late; that proved to be difficult. Now, Orocuen horsemen
dogged the decimated phalanx like piranhas, expertly lassoing the undead, especially in the
rear row, pulling them out of the ranks and dragging them away, where they methodically
hacked the corpses into tiny pieces. Trying to rescue their captured comrades, the grey
warriors had to break ranks, which made things all the worse for them. You have to give
Aragom his due: he managed to close the ranks and break through to the Gondorian side
under cover of brief counterattacks, personally cutting down two Mordorian officers in the
process. They had to cover the last hundred fifty yards under fire from field catapults once
again, so that only a few dozen living dead made it back to the Gondorians, almost causing
them to flee.

So Aragorn' s grey phalanx almost completely perished, but it did its job. First, it had
diverted substantial Mordorian forces, especially the catapults, without which the inner
fortifications of Minas Tirith could not be taken. More importantly, after the death of
Commander-South the South Army was deprived of overall direction and allowed itself to
be drawn into head-to-head fighting for mutual annihilation - a losing proposition where the
foe is so much more numerous. Nevertheless, the Mordorians kept fighting skillfully and
determinedly; the March day was already failing, but the Coalition still had not managed to
utilize its nearly two-to-one advantage. The main action was in the northern direction,
where TroUish infantry and Umbarian bowmen managed to beat off the Rohirrim's attempts
to break through their defense line, despite large losses.

Eomer slowly made his way past the line of Rohan and Dol Amroth cavalry, just
rolled back from another unsuccessful attack, the fourth one today. Actually, to call this

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glum crowd of men and horses, some wounded and all exhausted to the utmost, a 'line'
would be a stretch. He had been trying to straighten out the faceplate of his helmet, bent in
by a Haradi club, when they informed him that Theoden was among those who perished in
the last assault. After the victorious march on Isengard the old man was convinced that
Eomer was going to use his coming glory of the victor over Mordor to strip him of his
crown, and watched his nephew with a hawk's eye. That was why he headed the march to
the southeast himself, and then stripped his most popular general of his command right
before the battle. The king was determined to win this one all by himself, "without the snot-
nosed youths," and so ignored all tactical advice and sacrificed the best of Rohan's cavalry
in senseless head-on attacks. Now he, too, was dead.

Eomer, now in charge, gazed at the glum ranks of the Rohirrim shivering in the brutal
March wind. He felt like a physician who has been graciously allowed to treat the patient
after the latter had already slipped into a coma. The hell of it was that the army of Mordor
was in the same shape, if not worse; experience and keen battle intuition of the general told
him in no uncertain terms that just one swift assault could swing the battle now. He saw
clearly the weak spots in the enemy's line and knew exactly where to strike and how to
develop a successful breach, but he also knew that he dare not order his men forward. There
is an unwritten unbreakable law: one may only give an order when he is sure that it will be
followed, otherwise it is the end of everything that sustains an army. He saw just as clearly
that these men could not be roused for another attack, not today.

So he stopped his horse, ordered everyone to dismount - to be seen better by more
men - and launched into a speech strange for a warrior:

"We're all mortal, guys; what the hell does it matter if it's sooner or later? To me, it's
way more interesting what's gonna happen to us afterwards. You probably think the
general's nuts to talk about life after death right now, but 1 reckon - when's a better time? 1
mean, we're simple guys - we live in the field, pray to a shield, once the danger's over we
give it no thought till the next time . . . Well, lads, there's plenty of opinions about how's it
gonna be, but one thing everyone seems to agree on is that we all get whatever we believe
in. So if you think that once your corpse rots there's nothing left of you but a handful of
dust, then that's how it's gonna be with you. Some faiths are even worse - you bum around
the underworld forever as a shade - better to rot to nothing, indeed, than such a fate! Some
expect to lie on the green grass in a pretty garden, drink heavenly nectar and play the lyre till
the end of time; not bad, but kinda dull to my tastes. But there is a wonderful faith in the
Eastern lands - a travelling preacher told me all about it a few days ago - and it's pretty
damn good, no fooling, but its Paradise is what's best, just my style."

He looked around - the men seemed to be listening - and continued:

"A palace in Heaven and in it a feast to shame a royal wedding, wine flowing like
water from a spring, but the best part, lads, is the houranies. Those are girls who are forever
eighteen, beautiful beyond belief, and no doubts about their looks, for they are dressed only
in a golden bracelet each. And as for screwing - there are no such experts down here! One
problem, though - only righteous men as led a sinless life are allowed into that pleasure
palace, blokes like us have no chance ..." He spread his hands.

The ranks stirred distinctly, a rumble rose and fell, someone spat: cheated, again!
Eomer raised a hand and silence fell again, broken only by the listless susurration of dead
grass.

"That is to say - no chance but one. There is one loophole for losers such as

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ourselves. In this wonderful faith anyone killed fighting honorably for a just cause - and
who'd dare say that our cause is unjust? - has all his sins forgiven and is automatically
considered righteous. So if any of you boys wanna get to this Paradise by hving righteously
from now on - good luck to you! As for me, I have no such hopes, so I'm gonna join the
houranies right here and now as a valiant martyr - when else am I gonna have such a
chance? So whoever wants to and can - follow me, and good luck to the rest!"

He stood in the stirrups and yelled somewhere skyward, using his armor glove as a
bullhorn:

"Ahoy, gals! Open up the Heavenly bordello, never mind the hour! Stand ready to
receive three best regiments of Rohan cavalry - bet my head to a broken arrow that you
won't ever forget these customers! We're about to attack, so we'll join you in Heaven in
about ten minutes, that should be enough for you to get ready!"

And a miracle happened: the men began to stir! Laughter and elaborate cussing rose
from the ranks; someone from the right flank inquired whether one could catch clap from a
hourani and if so, how long it would take to cure in Heaven. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth,
a handsome man famous for his amorous exploits who had in the meantime drawn up closer
to Eomer, told a furiously blushing youngster on the left flank:

"Chin up, comet! Those in the know say that there are beauties for every taste in that
establishment. They must've lined up a flock of romantic maidens for you already, pining
for a chance to hear you recite some verses in the moonlight!"

To booming laughter, the young man blushed even more and glared angrily at the
prince from under thick, positively girlish, eyelashes. Eomer wheeled his horse around so
that dirt fanned out from under its hooves and called out:

"To saddle, men! The madam up there must've already sent for the best wine for the
new customers. By the laughter of Tulkas, today every one of you will get enough Niimen
wine to drown in, be it in heaven, be it on earth! The Valar will treat the fallen, the King of
Rohan will treat the living! After me! ..."

With those words he tossed his mangled helmet aside and looked back no more as he
rushed the horse towards where his trained eye had spotted a tiny alien patch in the
unbreakable stockade of TroUish armored infantry - the dark rounded shields of Easterling
spearmen. The wind whistled in his ears and tossed his sweaty flaxen hair; Imrahil was
galloping on his right, almost nose-to-nose.

"Dammit, Prince, put on your helmet - bowmen to the right!"

"After you, fair sir!" The prince grinned at him, whirled his sword over his head, and
called out in a voice hoarse from shouting orders: "Dol Amroth and the Swan!"

"Rohan and the White Horse!" echoed Eomer, while behind them the thunder of
thousands of hooves was already building to a majestic staccato: the riders of Rohan and Dol
Amroth were making their last charge, to win or die.

Chapter 9

Everybody knows that Easterling infantry is far inferior to Mordor's; Eomer' s charge
scattered them like bowling pins, and the shining edge of Western cavalry crashed through
the Mordorian defensive line. A little later another force slammed into their rear - a cutting
edge of Aragom's remaining grey warriors, encased with Gondorian armored infantry. By
about six in the evening those two fangs met deep in the body of the South Army, near its
camp. The battle as such was over then, and slaughter began. The parked siege engines

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were set ablaze, and the gigantic bonfire highlighted now an Orocuen ambulance wagon
stuck in the mud, then an arrow-studded mumak dashing around the field, trampling friend
and foe alike. Eomer had just run into Aragom in this chaos of victory and was
ceremoniously hugging his brother-in-arms to everyone's victory whoops, when he noticed
a horseman approaching them at full gallop - the blushing comet. To tell the truth, the boy
had more than acquitted himself, worthy of a medal. When the Rohirrim ran into the
remnants of the Southern cavalry near the camp, he took on a Haradi lieutenant one-on-one
and knocked the black giant out of the saddle (to everyone's astonishment), seizing the
enemy's serpent-emblazoned scarlet cape, the very cape he was now waving triumphantly.
A dozen paces short of the fatherly gazing leaders the comet dismounted, pulled off the
helmet, shook his head like an unruly horse, and suddenly a mass of hair tumbled over his
shoulders - feather grass of the Plains of Rohan gilded by the evening sun.
"Eowyn!" was all Eomer could say. "What the hell! . . ."

The shield-maiden stuck her tongue out at him, tossed him the Haradi cape in passing
- he was left standing, stunned, clutching his sister's trophy - and stopped in front of
Aragorn.

"Greetings, Ari!" she said calmly; only Nienna could have named the price of that
calmness. "Congratulations on the victory. As I see it, the wartime excuses are now void.
So if you don't need me any more, say so now and, by the stars of Varda, I will immediately
stop bothering you!"

"How can you think that, my fair Amazon!" and there she was in his saddle, looking at
him with shining eyes, prattling nonsense, and then kissing him in front of everybody - the
girls of Rohan are not big on southem ceremony, and a heroine of Pelennor certainly could
not care less ... All Eomer could do was look at this idyllic picture and get more upset by
the minute, thinking: "Fool! Open your eyes and look at his face, it's all written plainly
there - what he is to you and what you are to him! Why, why do the idiot girls always fall
for scoundrels - this one isn't even handsome ..." - not that he was the first or the last such
in that World, or any other . . .

He said none of that aloud, of course, only asked: "Show me your arm." Only when
Eowyn protested that she was adult enough to handle it and that it wasn't even a scratch did
he let out some of his frustration by yelling loudly and profanely enough to curl ears,
describing to the heroine of Pelennor, in graphic detail, what he was going to do to her if she
didn't report to the medics by the count of three. Eowyn laughed and saluted: "Yes, my
general!" and only the unusual care with which she mounted his horse told him that much
more than a scratch was involved here. But the girl had already leaned on her brother's
shoulder: "Eom, dear, please don't sulk, spank me if you want, just don't tell Auntie,
please?" and rubbed her nose on his cheek, just like in their childhood . . . Aragom was
watching them with a smile, and Eomer shuddered when he caught his look: it was the look
in the eye of an archer right before he lets fly.

He only fully grasped the meaning of that look the next day, when it was too late.
There was a council of war in Aragom' s tent that day, attended by Imrahil, Gandalf-
Mithrandir, and a few Elvish lords (whose army had arrived the night before, when it was all
over). There, the Dunadan explained to the heir of Rohan (the king now, really) without any
pleasantries that he was a subordinate rather than an ally now, and that the life of Eowyn,
under special guard in the Minas Tirith hospital, depended entirely on his reasonableness.

"Oh, dear Eomer can run me through right here and now, no doubt - and then watch

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what will happen to his sister in this palantir; it won't be a sight for the fainthearted. No,
she suspects nothing of the sort, of course; observe how touchingly sincere she is in caring
for the wounded Prince Faramir ... What guarantees? The only guarantee is common
sense: when I am the King of Gondor and Amor, I will have no one to fear . . . How? Very
simply. As you know, the king of Gondor is dead. A dreadful tragedy, really - imagine, he
went mad and immolated himself on a funeral pyre. Prince Faramir had been struck by a
poisoned arrow and will not get well for quite a while, if he ever does; this depends on ...
ah . . . on a number of factors. Prince Boromir? Alas, no hope there, either - he fell in
battle with the Ores at Anduin, just beyond the Falls of Rauros, and I put his body in the
funeral boat with my own hands. And since there is a war on, the heir of Isildur may not
leave the country without a leader. Therefore, I accept command over the Army of Gondor
and all the forces of the Western Coalition . . . Did you want to say something, Eomer? No?

"We are immediately moving on Mordor, for I can only accept the crown of Gondor
when we return victorious. As for Faramir, I am inclined to grant him one of Gondor' s
duchies ... oh, Ithilien, say. To tell the truth, he had always been more interested in poetry
and philosophy than in matters of state. But we should not plan that far ahead, since his
condition is critical and he may not survive until our return. So pray for his health, dearest
Imrahil, incessantly during our campaign; they say that the Valar especially appreciate the
prayers of a best friend . . . When do we set out? Immediately after we mop up the remnants
of the South Army at Osgiliath. Any questions? Good!"

The moment the tent was empty, the man in a grey cloak standing behind Aragom said
in a respectful reproach: "You have taken an unjustified risk. Your Majesty. This Eomer
was clearly beside himself; he could have cast everything aside and lashed out . . ."

The ranger turned to him and bit out: "You strike me as both too talkative and too
unobservant for a member of Secret Guard."

"My apologies. Your Majesty - a mithril coat of mail under your clothes?"

Aragom' s mocking gaze went over the speaker's swarthy dry face, lingering on rows
of tiny holes around the lips. A silence fell for almost a minute.

"Heh, I've almost decided that your brains must've dried up in the crypt and you
would now question its provenance ... By the way, I keep forgetting to ask: why do they
sew your mouths shut?"

"Not just the mouths. Your Majesty. The belief is that all openings in a mummy's
body must be closed up, lest the departed spirit re-enter it on the fortieth day and take
vengeance on the living."

"That's a rather naive method of . . . um . . . contraception."

"Indeed, Your Majesty," the man in grey allowed himself a smile, "and I am living
proof of that."

"Living, eh? By the way, how about the 'vengeance on the living' bit?"
"We only follow orders. Our shadow is your shadow."

"So whether I tell you to kill a child or become like a father to him, it's all the same to

you?"

"Absolutely. I will perform either duty to the best of my ability."

"All right, this suits me. Here's a job for you in the meantime. The other day one of
my Northem comrades-in-arms, one Anakit, got drunk and boasted to his friends that soon
he'll be as rich as Tingol. Supposedly he has information about some legendary sword for
which a certain someone will pay any price. This talk has to end immediately."

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"Yes, Your Majesty. Those who listened to these boasts . . ."
"Whatever for?"
"You think? ..."

"Remember this well, my dear friend: I kill without hesitation, but I never - never,
you hear me? - kill unless absolutely necessary. Understand?"
"This is truly wise, Your Majesty."

"You take too many liberties. Lieutenant," said the ranger in a tone that would chill
many a man.

"Our shadow is your shadow," repeated the other calmly. "So, in a way, you and us
are now one. May I carry out your orders?"

There is not much to add. The Western Coalition army (joined by the turncoat
Easterlings who were 'forgiven' by the victors) set out for its last campaign, the highlight of
which was the March 13^^ mutiny of the Westfold Rohirrim and Lossamach militiamen, who
could not for the life of them understand why they had to die far from home for Aragorn's
crown. Having ruthlessly put down the revolt, the Dunadan brought his army to the
Cormallen field at the entrance to Morannon, where he met the last defenders Mordor could
scrape up; the latter had already exhausted its reserves, having invested them all in the South
Army. The coalition won; more precisely, Gondorians, Rohirrim, and Easterlings simply
piled the fortifications of Morannon with their corpses. The Elves, as usual, joined the battle
when it was already decided. The losses of the victors were so massive that a legend about a
huge Army of the East had to be hastily invented. The Mordorians there died to a man,
including King Sauron; the monarch fought in the ranks of his Royal Mounted Guard in a
captain's cloak, so his body was never identified. The chronicles of the Western countries
mostly gloss over the Coalition's deeds after the victory, for the slaughter it carried out in
Mordor had been horrific even by the not-too-humanitarian standards of the time.

Be that as it may, Gandalf's plan had succeeded (if you don't count the small matter of
the Mirror, which the Elves had no intention of returning): the Mordorian civilization had
ceased to exist. However, the wizards of the White Council had somehow forgotten one
factor: namely, that there is a certain Someone in the world Who rather abhors complete
victories and assorted 'final solutions,' and is capable of showing His displeasure with same
in the most improbable ways. Even now, that Someone was dispassionately surveying the
vanquished - all that flotsam cast ashore by the passed storm - when suddenly He rested His
gaze upon a couple of soldiers of the extinct South Army lost among the dunes of the desert
of Mordor.

Chapter 10

Mordor, the Teshgol boundary
April 9, 3019

"So why not wait until nightfall?" Haladdin whispered.

"Because if this really is a trap and the guys who set it are not total idiots, the evening
is when they'll be expecting visitors. What does the Field Manual teach us, doctor?"
Tzerlag raised a finger. "Right - do the opposite of what the foe expects. So, don't move
until my signal, and if I'm lost, may the One preserve me, even more so. Clear?"

He cast another look at the camp and muttered: "Damn, I don't like this picture."

The Teshgol boundary consisted of fixed sands dotted with fairly thick copses of white

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saxaul in shallow depressions between small hillocks covered with desert serge and sacaton.
The camp was three yurts pitched in a triangle, with entrances facing in, in a small wind-
protected hollow about a hundred and fifty yards from their hideout, so everything in it was
clearly visible. Tzerlag had watched it for an hour, detecting no suspicious movements;
however, there were no non-suspicious movements, either, the camp looked deserted. This
was very strange, but it was time to make some move.

A minute later Haladdin, holding his breath, watched the scout in his brown cloak
fairly ooze along the barely discernible creases in the ground. He was right, of course: the
only thing a field medic could do to help was to avoid getting in a professional's way. True,
but it is not very pleasant to sit in the relative safety of a hideout when your comrade is
risking his life a few steps away. He scanned the horizon once again and then discovered, to
his amazement, that meanwhile the sergeant has vanished. Nuts! One could almost believe
that the scout had turned into an agama lizard and sank into the sand the way they can; or,
more appropriately, was now slithering along as a deadly saw-scaled viper. The doctor has
been staring into the hillocks around the camp till his eyes hurt for almost half an hour,
when suddenly he saw Tzerlag standing up right between the yurts.

Everything is fine, then! The departure of the feeling of danger was an almost
physical pleasure; every muscle of his, previously tense, was now blessedly relaxing, and
the world, once discolored by adrenalin, was regaining its natural colors. Climbing out of
the pit under a saxaul tree that leaned almost to the ground, Haladdin easily shouldered the
bag of gear and marched forward, looking closely at the ground - the slope was seriously
dented by desert rats. Almost at the bottom he finally looked up and realized that something
was wrong. Very wrong, to judge by the Orocuen's behavior: after standing for some time
at the entrance to the leftmost yurt, he then trudged to the next one without entering. Yes,
trudged - for some reason the sergeant's step had lost its usual spring. Only a barely audible
hum disturbed the unnatural quiet of the hollow, like tiny ripples on the oily surface of a
swamp . . . Then he suddenly understood everything, recognizing it as the sound of a myriad
of flies.

Even in the sandy desert soil it takes more than a few minutes to dig a grave for ten
people (four adults, six children); they had to hurry, but they had found only one spade and
so had to spell each other. Haladdin was about waist deep when Tzerlag walked up to him.

"Listen, you keep digging, I'll go walk around one more time and check on
something."

"You think someone may have survived and is hiding out there?"
"Unlikely, seems they're all here. But over there there's blood on the sand."
"But they were all murdered right in the yurts ..."

"That's the point. Keep working, but look around once in a while. I'll whistle if I
need you - one long, two short."

He heard the signal in no more than five minutes. The sergeant waved to him from a
small dune near the path to the highway, then disappeared behind its crest. Following,
Haladdin found the scout crouching before a dark round object; only when he was almost
there did he realize that it was the head of a man buried in the sand up to his neck, and that
the man appeared to still be alive. There was a clay bowl of water a few inches from his
lips, just beyond reach.

"That's who put up a fight back there. Are we too late, doctor?"

"No, it's all right. See, he's still sweating, so it's only the beginning of the second

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stage of dehydration, and he has no sunburns, thank the One."

"Yeah, they put him in the shade of the dune, precisely so that he'd take longer to die.
By all signs he'd pissed them off mightily . . . Can I give him water?"

"At the second stage - yes, but only in small portions. But how did you know? . . ."

"To be honest, I was looking for a corpse."

With those words Tzerlag put his leather flask to the blackened and cracked lips of the
buried man. The man shuddered and gulped down water, but his barely opening eyes
remained clouded and lifeless.

"Wait up, fella, not so fast! Hear what the doctor says: not all at once. All right, let's
pull him out; the sand is loose here, so we don't need a spade . . . Got him?"

Shoving the sand back some, they grabbed the man by his underarms and - "one-
two!" - pulled him out like a carrot from the garden patch. "Damn!" the Orocuen said with
feeling, gripping his scimitar; the rush of sand off the clothes of the rescued man revealed a
green jacket of a Gondorian officer to their stunned gazes.

This, however, did not affect the rescue operations in the slightest, and in a dozen
minutes the prisoner was, in Tzerlag' s words, "ready to use." The cloudiness in his grey
eyes gone, his gaze was now steady and slightly mocking. After a quick glance at his
rescuers' uniforms, he fully appraised his situation and, much to their surprise, introduced
himself in good, if accented, Orocuenish: "Baron Tangom, lieutenant of the Ithilien
Regiment. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

For a man who had just miraculously escaped a tortuous death only to face it again the
Gondorian was acquitting himself very well. The scout gave him a respectful look and
stepped aside, nodding to Haladdin to continue.

"Field Medic Second Class Haladdin and Sergeant Tzerlag of the Cirith Ungol
Rangers. Although it doesn't matter now."

"Why not?" the lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "Quite a distinguished regiment. If I
remember correctly, we met last fall at Osgiliath - the Rangers of Ithilien were defending
the southern flank then. By the fist of Tulkas, it was an excellent battle!"

"I'm afraid that now is not the best time to reminisce about those knightly exploits -
we're interested in more recent events. What team had massacred this camp? Name of
commanding officer, their number, task, direction of movement? And no fooling: we're not
inclined to benevolence, as you may guess."

The baron shrugged: "Quite legal questions. The company is made up of Easterling
mercenaries commanded by Eloar, an Elf; as I understand it, he's a relative of some Lorien
ruler. Number: nine people. Their task is roving patrol of a stretch of desert next to the
highway and mop-up of said territory as a counter-insurgency measure. Are you satisfied?"

Haladdin closed his eyes involuntarily and once again saw a toy bactrian made of
woolen threads, trampled into a pool of coagulated blood. So that's what they call it:
'mopping up territory.' Good to know.

"So how did you end up in the regrettable position in which we found you. Baron?"

"I'm afraid that it's such an unlikely story that you will not believe me."

"Then I'll tell you myself. You had attempted to stop this 'mop-up' and wounded one
of the mercenaries, perhaps even killed him. Correct?"

The Gondorian looked at them in obvious consternation. "How the hell do you know

that?"

"That's not important. Strange behavior for a lieutenant of Gondor, though."

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"It's proper behavior for a soldier and a gentleman," the prisoner replied drily. "I
hope that you will not view my accidental admission as an attempt to plead for my life."

"Oh, don't worry. Baron. I believe that the sergeant and I owe you at least a partial
payment on this debt; looks like it's our turn to behave foolishly ..." He looked back at the
Orocuen; the latter hesitated, but then gestured acceptance: do as you think best.

"Forgive my not-so-idle curiosity: what will you do if we set you free?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. Here in Mordor, if the Elves capture me they will finish what
Eloar's men started, even if not in such an exotic manner. There's nothing to come back to
in Gondor: my king is dead, and I do not intend to serve his murderer and usurper ..."

"What do you mean, Baron? We've heard no news since Pelennor."

"Denethor died a horrible death; supposedly he immolated himself on a funeral pyre.
The very next day there was a ready claimant to the throne. You see, there's an old legend,
which no one had taken seriously before, that the ruling House of Hiirin is only taking care
of the throne for the descendants of the mythical Isildur. Such a descendant has shown up -
one Aragorn, of the northern rangers. To prove his dynastic rights he produced a sword,
supposedly the legendary Anduril, although who had ever seen this Andurill He also
performed several healings by laying of hands, although all those healed were from among
his northern followers ... Prince Faramir, the heir apparent, retired to Ithilien and is
supposedly a prince there under the eye of Captain Beregond - the same one who testified to
Denethor' s 'self-immolation.'"

"And no one in the West objected to all this?"

"Aragom's Secret Guard - rumor has it that they're all living dead, animated by
Elvish magic - had quickly taught Gondorians not to ask such questions. As for Eomer,
they get whatever they want from him, which is not surprising, since his sister is under
guard with Faramir in Ithilien. Actually, it appears that Aragorn himself is an Elvish puppet,
and the real ruler of Gondor is Arwen, his wife from Lorien."

"What about our home, Mordor?"

"Barad-dur has been razed to the ground. The Elves are now forming a kind of a local
administration from all sorts of trash. It seems to me that they are destroying all remnants of
civilization and are systematically hunting down everyone with an education. I think they
seriously intend to push your people back into the Stone Age."

"What about your people?"

"I think that our turn will come, but for now they need us."

Tzerlag broke the ensuing silence. "All right. First we need to finish burying the
people of this camp. After that you can do whatever, but I intend to collect a debt from that
- what's his name? - Eloar. The owner of the blue yurt was my aunt twice-removed, so it's
a bloodfeud now."

"May I join you. Sergeant?" Tangorn asked unexpectedly, and explained to the
puzzled Orocuen: "They took my sword, a family heirloom. It would be nice to get the
Slumber-maker back; besides, I would rather like to send these guys my regards from
beyond the grave."

The scout studied the Gondorian directly for some time, then nodded: "Tangorn ...
Yeah, I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you took down Detz-Zeveg, the
'King of Spearmen.'"

"Right, I have had this honor."

"The only thing is, we don't have a sword to fit you. Ever use a scimitar?"

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"I'll figure it out somehow."
"All right, then."

Chapter 11

Mordor, near the Old Nurnen Highway
Night of April 11, 3019

"Where have you studied languages, Baron?"

"Well, I've spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that's what you mean, but
I've started at home. Prince Faramir - we're childhood friends - has an excellent library, all

in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That's why I'm here in Mordor,
actually - I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those
guys took it, by the way, together with the Slumber-maker." Tangom nodded towards a
double-crested dune where darkness hid Eloar's camped company, tracked down by Tzerlag.
"Among other things I've found a loose page of splendid verse I haven't seen before:

I swear by near and by far,

I swear by sword and fight that's fair,

I swear by the morning star

I swear by the evening prayer ...

Would you happen to know the author?"

"That's Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he's a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He
publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he's only a translator of texts created in
other worlds. You're right, the poetry's excellent."

"Damn, but that's a cute idea! For sure, one can describe the World in a myriad ways,
but a true poetic text where you can't change a single letter has to be the most precise and
economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common
between various worlds, it has to be poetry ... and music, of course. Such texts must exist
aside from us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a
seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest - one must only learn to
perceive them ... Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin had discovered a
formal method for doing so? Why not?"

"Right, something like modem geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses
of the dowsers. So you, too, think that the World is Text?"

"The world I inhabit certainly is, but that's a matter of taste."

Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn't it be nice to someday read the
paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers (what else are
they?) to hunt nine subhumans (why, how are those different from all the others?) and will
carry on a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper
in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the
author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.

His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them
blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it . . . would that he could have a stiff
drink right now ... He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight - a
short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction and a quiver with six mismatched arrows -
into his shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Tangom, still unaccustomed to Tzerlag' s skills, stared in

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mute amazement at the scout who had silently appeared from nowhere a few steps away.

"Fair sirs, one can hear your whispers from thirty paces off. Were it my boys rather
than those lowlifes, you'd already be counting stars on the One's robes ... Whatever,
bygones. Looks like I managed to grab my quarry by the very tail. Way I see it, they're
heading for that highway outpost that the Baron had mentioned. I figure that it's no more
than five or six miles away, and we won't be able to get at them there. So here's the plan

Here the sands of the erg bordered the western edge of a large hamada of many a
square mile - a silent sea rolling its waves onto a grim stony beach. The largest wave was,
appropriately, right against the shorehne - a huge dune stretching half a mile each way from
a fire burning at the middle of its foot. The Elf had chosen his campsite wisely, with the
forty-foot dune slope in the back and the flat expanse of the hamada in the front; the two
lookouts placed twenty yards to the north and the south of the fire along the bottom of the
dune fully covered all lines of possible attack. Not much fuel around here, but saxaul bums
long and hot, almost like coal; a dozen arm-thick logs from every member of the party will
provide enough warmth to last the night.

What if it's a trap? Haladdin wondered suddenly. Sure, Tzerlag had sniffed out
everything around, but aren't these guys too carefree? Never mind the fire, it's only visible
from the hamada where no one is supposed to be, but the fact that the sentry goes to the fire
to add fuel and warm himself a little - that's total madness, he can't see anything in the dark
for at least three minutes afterwards ... It was during one such departure of the southern
sentry that they had crept to within twenty paces of his position. The scout had left them
there and melted into the dark: he was supposed to go around the camp by the way of the
hamada and creep up to the northern sentry. No, he restrained himself; no need to fear your
own shadow. It's just that they've grown so unaccustomed to meeting resistance that
guarding the camp is a formality to them. Besides, it's their last night out on patrol,
tomorrow it will be baths, drink, and all that . . . plus a bonus for every Ore ear . . . I wonder
if children's ears bring the same bounty or are a bit cheaper? Stop it! Stop it right there!
He bit his lip, hard, feeling another round of shakes coming on - just like back at Teshgol,
when he first saw the mutilated corpses. You have to be absolutely calm, you'll be shooting
soon . . . yes, like that, relax and meditate . . . like that . . .

He lay flat on the cold sand, intently examining the sentry's silhouette. No helmet
(and rightly so, can't hear anything in one of those things), so best aim for the head.
Interesting, huh? - there stands a man, looking at the stars, thinking of pleasant (to him)
things, not knowing that he's already dead. Meanwhile the 'dead' man looked enviously at
his seven buddies by the fire (three to the south, three to the north, one to the west, between
the fire and the slope), and then turned away furtively, produced a flask, took a swig,
belched and wiped his lips noisily. Great! ... quite sloppy ... wonder how his northern
counterpart would like that? Suddenly Haladdin' s heart lurched and dropped somewhere
into the void: it's begun! Begun quite a while ago, too, while he, the idiot! had almost
missed it, just like the baron, another simpleton . . . For the northern sentry was already
sagging lifelessly to the ground, resting in Tzerlag' s firm embrace. Another moment, and
the scout carefully and silently put the Easterling's body down on the sand and flowed, like a
fox into a rabbit hutch, into the circle of firelight filled with sleeping forms.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Haladdin rose to one knee and drew the bow; in the comer of
his right eye he saw the baron readying for a lunge. The sentry must have seen some

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movement in the dark after all, but instead of shouting an alarm (imagine such lucky
stupidity!) he started reflexively putting away the illegal flask. The moment of delay was
enough for Haladdin to pull the butt of the arrow to his chin and habitually drop the aim an
inch below the target - the clearly backlit head of the sentry; twenty paces, a stationary
target, even a baby won't miss. He did not even feel the pain of the bowstring slamming his
left arm, for it was immediately followed by the dry and loud, as if into wood, thwack of the
arrow hitting home. The Easterling threw up his hands - the unlucky flask still clutched in
one - turned on a heel and slowly dropped. The baron sprinted forward and was already
past the dead man when a muffled cry sounded from the fire - the sergeant's scimitar
slammed into one of the three men lying to the north of the fire, and the silence immediately
shattered into a thousand screaming, howling shards.

Haladdin followed his orders by circling the camp, staying outside the circle of
firelight and yelling in different voices: "Surround them, lads, let no sumbitch escape!" and
suchlike. Instead of immediately scattering, the sleep-addled mercenaries instinctively
clustered by the fire. On the southern approach Tangorn hit three of them; one immediately
folded, clutching his stomach, and the baron snatched his sword - a wide and, Tulkas be
praised, straight one - tossing away the scimitar he had to use initially. The light of the fire
fell on his face, and the two remaining Easterlings abruptly dropped their weapons and
bolted, screaming shrilly: '"Gheu! Gheu!" (a kind of vampire into which unburied dead
supposedly turn). Surprised, Haladdin was slow to open up on them and apparently missed
- in any event, they both vanished into the night. In the commotion Tzerlag had wounded
another 'northern' Easterling, retreated a bit and was now calling out: "Hey, Eloar, you
coward, where are you? I came to you to exact the blood-price of Teshgol!"

"I'm here, spawn of Morgoth," a scornful voice replied, "Come over, I'll scratch you
behind the ears!" and, addressing his troops now: "No panic, carrion eaters! There're only
three of them, we'll do them like babies! Whack the slanted-eyes, he's the chief, and stay
away from their archer!"

The Elf appeared beside the fire on the right - tall, golden-haired, clad in light leather
armor - his every move and every feature conveying a bewitching impression of sinuous
deadly power. He resembled his sword - a thin shimmering ray of bluish starlit ice, the very
look of which sent shivers through Haladdin. Tzerlag swung his scimitar with a hoarse cry -
a feint to the face and an immediate right arc to the knee; Eloar parried casually, and even a
field medic (second class) could see right away that the sergeant had bitten off more than he
could chew. The master of stealth and infiltration has met a master of the sword, and the
only question now was whether he would be finished off in two or three thrusts. Tangorn
understood it best of all, so he raced across the fifteen yards separating him from the fight in
a flash and laid into the Elf from the left, yelling at the haphazardly retreating scout: "Cover
my back, dumbass!"

A professional at work (no matter what profession) is always fascinating to watch, and
here there were two masters of the highest caliber. Too bad that all of the few spectators
were too busy with their own affairs to admire the show - mostly they were trying to kill
each other, which takes a certain amount of concentration. Nevertheless both partners put
their all into their work, their tightly choreographed moves fitting them into the gaps of the
deadly lace being crocheted by their shining blades with mathematical precision. Tangorn' s
remark about covering his back was quite a propos - the sergeant immediately had to take
on the two remaining Easterlings, one of whom was thankfully lame. Haladdin, armed with

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only a bow, was under strict orders not to get into close combat or even get out of the
darkness; since shooting at that tangle of friend and foe would be sheer madness, he just
milled around the edges looking for a good target.

Gradually it became obvious that Tangom was winning. Although his sword was a
good three inches shorter, he managed to pink his opponent twice, in the right arm and
above the knee. It is known that the Elves do not handle blood loss well, and Eloar's thrusts
were losing their swift precision with every moment; the baron pressed him, calmly waiting
for the right moment for a decisive strike, when something inexplicable happened. The
Elvish blade suddenly wavered and pointed aside, exposing Eloar's trunk, and, lightning-
fast, the Gondorian's sword immediately struck him in the lower chest. Haladdin swallowed
involuntarily, expecting the steel to come out of the Elf's back steaming with blood - no
mail could have stopped that thrust, much less leather armor. But Tangom' s blade bounced
off the leather as if it was enchanted, and the Elf, who had clearly expected just that,
grabbed his sword with both hands and immediately delivered a terrible hacking top-down
blow. The baron could neither evade nor parry. He only had time to drop to one knee and
catch Eloar's sword with his - 'edge against edge'; shoddy Eastern steel shattered like glass,
and the Elvish blade went into his thigh by almost a third. Tangorn managed to roll away
from the next, pinning thrust, but the Elf caught up with him in one stride and . . . And that
was when Haladdin, figuring that he had nothing to wait for any more, let fly.

Later he realized that he had performed an impossible feat. The doctor had never been
a good shot with a bow and knew nothing of running shots, especially at a moving target,
and especially since Tzerlag and the two Easterlings he was fighting were between him and
Eloar. But the fact remains: he had shot without aiming and his arrow hit Eloar right in the
eye, so that the Elf, as the saying goes, "died before his body hit the ground."

Chapter 12

The fire was almost out by then, but the fight went on in the dark. Both Easterlings

kept attacking Tzerlag relentlessly; twice did Haladdin shoot at them when they broke off
for a moment, and twice - for shame! - he missed. Finally the lame Easterling let through
another thrust; dropping his sword, he fell down to his knees and crawled away, dragging
the wounded leg and moaning. Haladdin almost let him go - plenty more to deal with - but
was lucky enough to notice in time that the man had crawled up to one of the packs and,
sitting up, has already fished out a bow; reaching into his own quiver, he found only one
arrow and shivered. They aimed at each other in unison, but the doctor's nerves failed and
he let fly and jumped sideways, hearing the deadly hiss pass a foot and a half left of his
stomach. The Easterling was less lucky: after his shot he could not evade and was now
lying flat on his back with Haladdin' s arrow under the collarbone. Meanwhile Tzerlag
managed to trick his opponent into opening up and struck him in the neck; the Orocuen's
face was now covered with sticky droplets, and his arm was fairly dripping. So, is that all of
them? Victory, dammit . . .

Haladdin lost no time throwing more wood into the dying fire; then he sat so as not to
block the light and cut open Tangorn' s sticky pant leg with a single practiced movement.
There was quite a lot of blood, but not too much for such a deep wound. At least the thigh
artery is intact; thank the One that Elvish swords are so narrow, like a third of the Easterling
width. All right, a tourniquet . . . now a tampon . . . The sergeant went around the campsite,
finished off the two Easterlings that showed signs of life, and crouched beside the field

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medic.

"Whaddya say, doctor?"

"Well, could' ve been worse. The bone is intact, so are most sinews, as far as I can
tell, as are the largest blood vessels. Hand me that rag."
"Here you go. Can he walk?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Then," the sergeant got up wearily and for some reason carefully shook the sand from
his knees, "it's all over, guys. Two of them got away, and there's no sense in chasing them
in this dark. They'll make that highway outpost before dawn, there's no way they can get
lost - just hurry north along the edge of the hamada. Soon as it dawns, they'll be back with
a dragnet search, get it?"

Tangorn suddenly raised himself on an elbow; Haladdin realized with horror that he
had been fully conscious while they were busy with his wound. The firelight clearly showed
the baron's face, shining with sweat, but his voice was just as steady, even if a little hoarse:

"Don't worry about it, guys. After all, I was supposed to be dead two days ago; were I
to play this round again, I'd use this break in the same way ..." With those words he pulled
down his collar, baring the carotid artery. "So, Sergeant, just do it: one-two, and all set. I'd
really rather not be stuck in the sand again. Then get away, and good luck to you both. Too
bad that our acquaintance had been so short, but that's life."

"Baron, I'm a simple man," Tzerlag answered calmly, "and I'm used to doing things
by the book. The Field Manual, paragraph forty-two, says clearly that the 'strike of mercy'
is allowed only when there's an immediate danger of the wounded man falling into enemy
hands. When such a danger appears - tomorrow, say - then we'll discuss it."

"Quit fooling around, Sergeant! Why the hell would you doom all three of us, when
you won't save me anyway?"

"Quiet in the ranks! We came here together and we'll leave together; the rest is the
One's will. Doctor, check the Elf's pack, maybe there's a medkit there?"

Haladdin called himself an idiot; he should have thought to check. What's he got in
there? All right, an excellent bow and a quiver with thirty arrows, each with a leather sheath
on the point, so they must be poisoned; a wonderful weapon, I'll keep it for myself. A coil
of elvenrope: weighs half a pound, takes up a pint of space, a hundred feet long, can hold
three mumaldl; this'U come in handy. Elvish bread and a flask of Elvish wine, which isn't
wine at all; wonderful, the baron could use some right away. A purse with gold and silver
coins, probably to pay the Easterlings since the Elves supposedly don't use money; we'll
keep that, can't have too much money. Writing implements and some notes, written in
runes ... damn, can't make out anything in the dark; all right, if we live, we'll read them.
Oh, here it is, the One be praised! Having opened the medkit, Haladdin was stunned: it had
everything he could think of, and all of the best quality. Antiseptic - spider webs covered
with greyish-green spots of healing lichen; analgesic - little balls of dehydrated Khand
purple poppy juice; coagulant - powdered mandrake root from the high meadows of the
Misty Mountains; stimulant - cola nuts from Harad's swampy jungles; tissue regenerator - a
brown resin-like substance capable of mending a broken bone or a trophic sore in five days;
plus much more he had neither time nor need to discern right then. Just let Tzerlag figure
out how to throw the pursuit off track, and he'll have the baron in good shape in no more
than a week.

In the meantime the Orocuen was going through the Easterlings' packs in search of

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flasks and rations - in their position another ten or fifteen minutes meant nothing. What
they needed was an idea; they were finished without one. So: they could go onto the
hamada, he knew a few outcroppings nearby with suitable cracks; however, those were
likely to be searched first. Hiding in the sand was not an option - with no wind, there was
no way to erase their tracks properly, they'd be tracked down in no time. The only thing he
could think of was to head west at best possible speed, towards the mountains, and try to
reach the edge of the Morgai plateau with its wind-hollowed caves, but what chance did they
have of covering over thirty miles with a non-walking wounded? ... The baron, revived
somewhat by a couple of good draughts of Elvish wine, interrupted his thoughts: "Sergeant,
a minute of your time? Please examine the Elf."

"Whatever for?" The scout was surprised. "I've already checked - dead as a snake

skin."

"That's not what I mean. I keep thinking about that leather breastplate of his that a
sword can't cut. Please check whether there's anything special under it."

Tzerlag grunted, but got up from his task and went over to the dead body. Taking out
his scimitar, he stuck the blade under the bottom edge of the Elf's armor and cut it open in
one movement from crotch to neck, as if gutting a large fish.

"Hey, look, a coat of mail! Real strange, too, never saw one like that ..."

"Seems to glow a little, right?"

"Right. Did you know or did you guess just now?"

"Had I known it, I wouldn't have bought his open body trick," Tangorn grumbled.
"It's mithril. I couldn't possibly pierce that mail, nor can anyone else in Middle Earth."

Tzerlag cast a sharp look towards the baron, a pro saluting a pro. Haladdin came up,
helped the sergeant take the precious scaly skin off the dead Elf and examined it closely.
Indeed, the metal was slightly phosphorescent, resembling a blob of moonlight, and warm to
the touch. The mithril mail-coat weighed about a pound and was so thin that it could be
rolled into an orange-sized ball; when it accidentally spilled from his fingers and pooled in a
silver puddle at his feet, he thought that it would be impossible to find on a moonlit night.

"And here I've thought that mithril was a legend."

"Well, it's not, as you can see. I think you can buy half of Minas Tirith and all of
Edoras to boot with one such mail-shirt. There's no more than twenty in the entire Middle
Earth and there'll be no more, the secret is lost."

"So why did he hide it under that leather fake?"

The scout responded for Tangorn: "Because only an idiot shows his trumps. Uruk-Hai
the Great's principle: if you're weak, show strength to the foe; if you're strong, show
weakness."

"Right," the baron nodded, "and don't forget the Easterlings. Had those carrion-eaters
known about the mithril mail, they'd've cut his throat the first night and fled south - to
Umbar, say - to become rich men there. Provided they didn't waste each other dividing the
loot, of course."

The sergeant gave a gloomy whistle. "Hot damn! So this Eloar really was some kinda
Elvish big shot. Which means that the Elves will turn over every stone on the hamada and
sift every dune looking for our band, and spare neither time nor effort ..."

He clearly pictured how it would be done, having played the role of both hunter and
hunted in many a dragnet search. Most likely they'll gather at least a hundred fifty foot
soldiers and riders for the task, or however many can be found on this stretch of the

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highway. The mounted soldiers will first block the way to Morgai and form a half-circle
against the unapproachable edge of the hamada, while the foot soldiers will move in a
dragnet from the destroyed camp, checking every desert rat hole. With this approach they
won't even need experienced trackers, the superior numbers will be enough, as usual. The
whole gang will be based at the nearest outpost, the only place with a large enough well; the
commander's headquarters will be there, too . . .

Tzerlag knew that 'outpost' well - a caravanserai abandoned together with the entire
old Numen Highway after the irrigators' efforts had turned the Western Nurnenlands into
dead salt pans. It was a large square building of sun-dried clay bricks surrounded by all
sorts of adobe outbuildings, with the ruins of the old caravanserai, knocked down by an
earthquake, in the back, overgrown with bactrian thornbush and serge . . . Wait a minute -
those ruins will be the last place they'll think of searching! Right, the last one - meaning
that sooner or later those will be searched, too, by elimination. Too bad, the idea looked
pretty decent at first . . . How about a diversion, a false trail with a sideways move ... to
where? ...

Time was slipping away like water from a torn water-skin, and suddenly the scout's
expression and posture changed subtly in a way that told Haladdin with cold certainty that
the Orocuen did not see any chance of escape, either. A soft icy hand entered the doctor's
bowels and began leisurely sorting through them as if through freshly caught fish thrashing
on the bottom of a boat. It was not soldier's dread before a battle (he had already been
through that today), but something rather different, akin to the dark irrational terror that
grips a suddenly lost child. Only now did he understand that Tzerlag did not just fetch him
water through the Elf -infested forest at Osgiliath, did not only carry him on his back under
the noses of the sentries at Minas Morgul - no, all this time the scout had also shielded the
doctor with his powerful and comforting 'there's a man in the house' protective aura, and
this aura was now in tatters. To be honest, Haladdin had agreed to this mission of
vengeance only because he had firmly decided that it was better to be in any kind of a bind,
but with Tzerlag - and had guessed wrong this time. The circle has been completed: Eloar
paid for Teshgol, in a few hours they will pay for this camp ... Then, frightened and
despairing, he yelled in the Orocuen' s face:

"Are you happy now?! First-rate vengeance, still can't get enough of it?! You paid
with all of us for one Elvish bastard, may the earth swallow him and his ilk forever!"

"What did you say?" the scout echoed in a strange tone. "May the earth swallow this
Elf forever?"

Chapter 13

And suddenly Haladdin, brought up short, beheld before him the usual Tzerlag - the

one who knows what to do.

"Sorry," he mumbled guiltily, looking away.

"Whatever, it happens. Bygones. Now, try to remember exactly - you too. Baron -
did that pair of Easterlings beat it before or after I took on Eloar?"
"Before, I think ..."

"Before, Sergeant, I'm positive - bet my hfe on it."

"Right. So they can't possibly know that Eloar is dead or that he even fought . . . All
right. Now, doctor - can the baron walk at least a couple of miles, with crutches?"

"With crutches - yes, I think so. I'll stuff him full of analgesics ... but there'll be a

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bad reaction afterwards."

"Do it, doctor, or he won't have any 'afterwards'. Put together the medkit, some water
and those breads, nothing else. Oh, and some weapons, just in case."

A few minutes later the sergeant handed Tangom a pair of cross-shaped crutches he
had just fashioned out of shortened Easterling spears and began laying out instructions.

"We'll split now. You two will get on the hamada and head north along the edge . . ."

"North?! But that's where the outpost is!"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I see - do the opposite of what the foe expects?"

"You got it, doc. Listen. Don't stray from the hamada to the sand. If - no, when -
the baron conks out, you'll have to lug him. Don't lose the crutches, hear? Watch that the
wound does not reopen, else there'll be a blood trail. The most important thing for you right
now is to not leave any tracks; that's easy on the hamada, it's all gravel. I'll catch up with
you in two, two-and-a-half hours."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll explain later, every minute counts now. Forward march, warriors! ... Wait -toss
me a couple cola nuts, I could use them, too."

After seeing his comrades move off, the scout got busy. He had plenty of things to do,
many of them small and easily overlooked ones. For example, he had to gather all the stuff
that might come in handy later, should they survive this bind - from Elvish weapons to
Tangorn's books - and bury it carefully, noting landmarks. Then to prepare his own pack -
water, rations, warm cloaks, weapons - and stash it on the hamada. Now for the most
important task.

Tzerlag's idea, inspired unexpectedly by Haladdin's outburst, was this: suppose that
Eloar had not perished in the attack, but ran off into the desert and got lost? That would be
quite likely - an Elf in a desert is like an Orocuen in a forest - and his comrades would first
and foremost search for their prince (or whoever he was), and only then for the guerillas
who wasted six Easterling mercenaries (no big loss). He now had to turn this preposterous
supposition into certain fact.

He took moccasins off the Elf's feet and picked up the cut-up leather breastplate;
noticed a simple silver ring on the corpse's left hand and pocketed that, too, just in case.
Then he dug a pit about two feet deep, put the corpse there and covered it with carefully
smoothed sand. By itself this is a lame trick unless you create an illusion that the sand could
not possibly have been disturbed. For that, we need another dead body, preferably with
minimum damage; the sentry killed by Haladdin's arrow will do just fine. Carefully Tzerlag
carried the body to the spot where he hid the Elf, slit the Easterling' s throat from ear to ear
and drained the blood the way hunters do with big game; then he lowered the body into the
pool of blood and arranged it in a natural-looking way. It now looks obvious that the
mercenary died on this spot; a normal person is not very likely to look for a body right under
another one, in blood-soaked sand, unless he knows exactly what to look for.

All right, half the job is done - the real Elf has disappeared, and now he will acquire a
very much alive and fleet-footed double. The Orocuen changed into the Elf's moccasins
(damn, how can they wear such boots, without a proper hard sole!) and ran south along the
foot of the dune, trying to leave good tracks where the ground was harder. He had donned
the Elf s slit breastplate like a vest and carried his own indispensable desert boots in his
hands. About a mile and a half from the camp the sergeant halted; he had never been a good

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runner, and now his heart was pounding somewhere near the throat, trying to escape. The
distance was already adequate; the 'Elf will now move onto the hamada, where he will
leave no tracks. The scout dropped Eloar's leather armor about fifteen paces beyond the
spot where the tracks ended; this would serve to confirm both the fugitive's identity and,
indirectly, his course (south).

Stop and think again, he said to himself. Perhaps it's best not to leave the breastplate
here at all - too obvious. All right, what would I do if I were him? I am a fugitive who's
unsure of where to go next; looks like I've lost my pursuers, but now I'll have to wander in
this terrible desert for who knows how long, and it's scarier than any human foe. It's high
time to ditch everything I can to lighten the load; this thing is not that useful anyway, if I
survive I can buy another one of these in any armor shop ... Sounds reasonable? Yes,
quite. Why did I take it off now rather than earlier? Just had no time when fleeing, but now
I've stopped, looked around ... Sounds reasonable? Sure does. And why is it sliced like
that? Because it won't be the friendlies that find it, but rather the enemies who're hunting
me; by the way, they're almost certainly tracking me, so it's high time to move from sand
onto gravel. Sounds reasonable? Yeah . . . Anyway, never think the enemy stupid, but don't
assume that they're geniuses, either.

He was almost ready for the sprint back - changed into his boots and chewed a bitter
cola nut - when his gaze fell on the breastplate lying on the stones of the hamada like a
cracked eggshell, and realization of an almost-made mistake drenched him in cold sweat.
An eggshell - how did the Elf crack out of it? Cut it off himself? It's precisely this kind of
a trifle that can blow a whole operation! All right, unlace it . . . No! I the Elf am in a hurry,
I don't need the armor any more - rather, cut the cord. Now it's all set.

He jogged back along the hamada, heading for the barely visible glint of the dying
fire, where his pack awaited. Cola filled him with a treacherous lightness, so that he had to
deliberately slow down, lest his heart burst. Picking up the pack, he forced himself to rest
for a few minutes and then sprinted forward again; now he had to look out for Haladdin and
Tangorn, which slowed him down naturally. It turned out that they have covered over two
miles already - an excellent pace he did not even count on. The scout saw Haladdin first -
the doctor was resting, sitting on the ground with his expressionless bloodless face turned up
towards the stars. He had been carrying the baron for the last half a mile, and now Tangorn
was back on his crutches, trying doggedly to gain them another few yards.

"Have you guys polished off all of that Elvish wine?"

"No, we've left some for you."

Tzerlag scanned his comrades, estimated the remaining trip and ordered them to take
cola. He knew that tomorrow (if there were a tomorrow) their bodies would pay a
nightmarish price both for this drug and for the poppy balls, but there was no other way to
make the trek. Later Haladdin realized that he could not remember any of that part of the
journey. He remembered clearly that the cola had not only breathed new life into his weary
muscles, but also sharpened all his senses amazingly, greatly expanding their range - from
the familiar constellations, which suddenly shone with a multitude of previously invisible
tiny stars, to the smell of dung smoke from someone's incredibly distant fire - but he could
not remember a single detail of their trip.

That memory gap ended just as suddenly as it began; the world became real once
again, and reality brought back pain, and weariness so enormous that it even pushed the
sense of danger to somewhere in the back of his consciousness. He found himself lying flat

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against the ground behind a tiny ridge about thirty yards away from their desired ruins, the
massive cube of the outpost looming behind it in the predawn twilight.

"Maybe we should sprint?" he asked in a barest whisper.

"Like hell!" the scout hissed furiously. "See the sentry on the roof?"

"Does he see us?"

"Not yet: he's silhouetted against the grey sky, we're against dark ground. But if you
move he'll definitely see you."

"But it's dawning already . . ."

"Shut up, willya? It's bad enough as it is ..."

Suddenly the stony ground under Haladdin vibrated with a new ominous sound: a dry
fast drumming which quickly coalesced into a rumble resembling an avalanche. A large
troop of riders was approaching at a fast trot along the highway, and resurgent fear was
already yelling at him: "They saw you! They're surrounding you! Run!" - when the
sergeant's calm whisper brought him back to his senses:

"Ready! On my mark - no earlier! - run as fast as you can. Take the pack, the
crutches, and the weapons; I'll take the baron. This is our one and only chance."

Meanwhile the troop had arrived at the outpost and the usual commotion ensued:
cursing riders were pushing their way through the throng of milling foot soldiers, their
commander was arguing with the local one, the guttural shouts of the Easterlings mingled
with the Elves' alarmed trilling, the roof suddenly sported three silhouettes rather than one -
and that was when unbelieving Haladdin heard a quiet: "Now!"

He had never run so fast in his life, never mind failing strength. He made it to the
blind zone under the dilapidated wall in a flash, dropped his burden and still managed to get
back to help Tzerlag, who was halfway there, lugging the baron on his back. The scout
shook his head - no time, it'd take longer to switch. Faster, faster! Oh One, how much
longer will those dumb sentries stare at the new arrivals - a second? three? ten? They got to
the ruins, expecting an alarm any moment, and dropped to the ground immediately; Tangom
must have been in bad shape, as he did not even moan. Scraping their faces and hands on
the bactrian thombush, they scrambled into a wide crack in the wall and suddenly found
themselves in an almost intact room. All its walls were up, only the ceiling sported a large
gap through which they could see the rapidly greying dawn sky; the entrance was entirely
blocked with a mound of broken bricks. Only then did Haladdin realize: they've made it
after all ! Now they had the best hideout possible, just like a duck sitting on her eggs right
under a falcon's nest.

He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes just for a moment, and immediately
gentle waves carried him away, whispering: it's all over, rest for just a few minutes, you've
earned it . . . up, down, up, down . . . what are these waves? Tzerlag? Why is he shaking
my shoulder so furiously? Oh damn! Thanks, mate - of course I have to attend to Tangorn
immediately. Nor do I have a few minutes to rest - the cola's effect will wear off soon, and
then I'll just plain fall apart . . . where' s that damn medkit?

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Chapter 14

Mordor, Morgai plateau
April 21, 3019

Evening came. The molten gold of the sun was still boiling in the cauldron formed by
two peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, sharp burning sparks escaping it from time to time,
but a transparent purplish haze was already encroaching on the foothills colored by the
sunset. The cold blue of the sky, almost azure at its eastern end, contrasted beautifully with
yellowish-pink (the color of a Khandian melon) sedimentary crags of Morgai, cut by deep
ink-black gorges. The sides of the flat-top clay foothills adjoining the plateau were draped
in ash-grey serge and salsola, dotted here and there with splashes of red - patches of wild
tulips.

Haladdin was of two minds about those flowers. Just as every tulip was beautiful
individually, so did the half-acre patches they formed seem unnatural and ominous. It must
have been because their color was too good a match to that of bright red arterial blood when
in the sun, and crimson venous blood when in the shade, like right now. Serge and tulips;
ash and blood. Perhaps he would have discerned different connotations at another time.

"About a mile and a half left." Tzerlag, walking in the lead, turned to his companions
and nodded towards a patch of bright green oozing out of a large dale onto the yellow clay
of the foothills. "What do you say. Baron - we stop for a break now or make one final push
and then settle down decent-like?"

"Guys, enough coddling me already," the Gondorian answered somewhat irritably.
He could already use his leg almost normally, although he still used crutches, and had even
insisted on carrying part of the load. "I'll never get back into normal shape that way."

"All such complaints to the doctor, please, I've no say here. What does medicine
recommend, eh?"

"Chew some cola, of course," Haladdin quipped.

"Aw, get lost!"

The joke was indeed of dubious quality: none of them could recall the finale of their
forced march to the ruins at the outpost without shuddering. Cola does not give a body new
strength, it only mobilizes the reserves it already has. Such mobilization can occur
spontaneously, when a man jumps a dozen yards to save his life or pulls a half-ton boulder
out of the ground with his bare hands; cola allows one to perform such feats on demand, but
then comes the payback: having exhausted his reserves in one critical minute, the person
turns into jelly for a day and a half, both physically and mentally.

That was exactly what happened to them that morning, right after Haladdin managed
to patch up Tangom's thigh hastily. The baron soon got the shakes, as the fever of his
wound combined with opium withdrawal; he needed urgent help, but neither the doctor nor
the scout could so much as move an eye, like beached jellyfish. Some ten hours later
Tzerlag did manage to get up, but all he could do was give the wounded man the rest of the
Elvish wine and cover him with all the cloaks they had; Haladdin came back to life too late
to nip the baron's illness in the bud. He did manage to prevent overall sepsis, but the wound
developed a large local inflammation; Tangorn ran a fever and became loudly delirious,
which was the worst part - enemy soldiers used the back of the ruins as a latrine and were
constantly coming and going, so much so that the sergeant began seriously considering
putting him out of his misery before he gave them all away with his mutterings.

Praise the One that this did not become necessary - by the end of the second day the

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Elvish antiseptics had worked, Tangom's fever went down and the wound started to close
quickly. The adventure was far from over, though. It turned out that, unbeknownst to their
officers, the mercenaries had put up a huge vat making araka - a local brew made from
manna - in one of the adjoining ruined rooms and gathered there for a drink or three every
nightfall. The companions mostly got used to the soldiers (just sit quiet as a mouse in their
well-isolated room during the party), but Haladdin vividly pictured some overzealous duty
officer taking the pains to examine every room around in order to discover the source of the
'water of life': "Hey, you three! Ten-shut, lushes! What's your platoon? Where're your
uniforms. Ore-bait?" Just imagine blowing it all like that . . .

Still, while hiding in the ruins was dangerous, venturing forth would have been total
madness: mounted and foot patrols of Easterlings and Elves kept combing the desert,
examining even fresh fox tracks. Meanwhile a new problem arose - a severe water
shortage. They had to use too much water on the wounded man, and there was no way to
replenish the stock, since there was foot traffic around the outpost well day and night. After
five days the situation became critical - they had half a pint between them. The baron
recalled his Teshgol adventure and gloomily mentioned frying pan and fire. What rotten
luck, Haladdin thought: this is the first time in our three weeks in the desert that we're
actually thirsty, and that less than a hundred yards from a well!

Salvation came from an unexpected quarter - on the sixth day the first sandstorm of
the season struck. A yellow wall approached from the south, gradually extending upwards -
it seemed that the desert horizon was rolling up like the ragged edge of a monstrous scroll;
the sky turned ashen, and one could look at the bleached-white noon sun without squinting,
as if it were the moon. Then the boundary between earth and sky disappeared altogether, as
if two enormous hot frying pans came together, raising myriads of grains of sand into the air
between them; their mad dance lasted for more than three days. Tzerlag knew better than
the others what a simoom was like, and offered a sincere prayer to the One for all those
caught away from shelter - not even an enemy deserves such a fate. The One must have
ignored the part about enemies; later they gathered from soldiers' talk that several patrols
(about twenty men in total) did not make it back to the base in time and were certainly dead.
There was no reason to search for Eloar any longer, as not even his corpse could be found
now. And in the evening Tzerlag wrapped himself in the Elvish hooded cloak and finally
made it to the courtyard well under the cover of the suffocating yellow fog. So when
Tangorn raised a still-wet flask a few minutes later and offered a toast to the desert demons,
the scout frowned doubtfully but did not object.

They left their hideout on the last night of the sandstorm, when the wind had mostly
failed and did no more than drag wisps of sand along the ground, obliterating all tracks. The
scout led his comrades west, to Morgai, hoping to meet nomadic Orocuens who would be
bringing their cattle there to the spring pastures, and rest a little with one of his numerous
relatives. They detoured to Eloar' s camp along the way and dug up the trophies that Tzerlag
had been so far-sighted to hide back then. The scout used the opportunity to check on the
Elf's corpse and found it nearly fully mummified; isn't it strange that neither carrion-eaters
nor worms ever touch the Elvish dead - are they poisonous or something? . . .

They started their quick march towards the mountains with the first light: to move
during the day was to take a huge risk, but they had to use the short time they had when they
did not have to worry about concealing their tracks. By the end of the second day the
company got to the plateau, but Tzerlag had seen no nomads, and it was beginning to

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seriously worry him.

The dale where they camped was green because a little but talkative spring lived there.
It must have been lonely and now hurried to tell its unexpected guests all the news of its tiny
world: spring is late this year, so the blue irises at the third bend are not in flower yet, but
yesterday it had a visit from some gazelles it knew, an old male with a couple of females . . .
one could listen to this quiet melodious murmur forever. Only a man who has spent weeks
in the desert drinking nothing but bitter salty water at the bottom of cattle watering holes and
meager drops of tasteless tzandoi distillate can appreciate what it means to immerse one's
face into living, running water. It can only be compared to the first touch of a lover after a
very long separation; no wonder that the imagination of desert dwellers has not some
pompous Crystal Palace of Delights at the center of its Paradise, but rather a small lake
under a waterfall . . .

Then they drank tea brewed to oily blackness, ceremoniously passing around their
only nicked tea bowl somehow preserved by the sergeant through all the troubles ("Real

Khandian work, I'll have you know!"), and now Tzerlag was unhurriedly explaining to
Tangorn that green tea has a multitude of virtues, whereas the question of whether it's better
than black tea is akin to the ridiculous one of whether one loves mother or father best - each
has its time and place. For example, in the heat of midday . . . Haladdin was only half-
listening to the discourse, just like he was listening to the murmuring of the brook behind
large stones, experiencing marvelous moments of quiet happiness, kind of like ... family
happiness, perhaps?

The fire, quickly burning down dry salsola roots (their grey trunks covered most of the
nearby slope), cast a bright light on his comrades: the chiseled profile of the Gondorian
turned towards the moon-like visage of the Orocuen, who resembled some placid Eastern
deity. With a sudden heartache Haladdin realized that their strange fellowship was almost
over - in only a few days their paths will diverge, probably forever. The baron, once his
wound heals completely, will head to the Cirith Ungol pass - he decided to make his way to
Prince Faramir in Ithilien - while the sergeant and he will have to decide what to do next.

It was strange, but having gone through several potentially fatal adventures alongside
Tangorn, they have not really found out anything about his previous life. ("Are you
married. Baron?" - "Well, that's a complicated question, can't just answer yes or no." "So
where is your estate located?" - "I don't think that's important any more, no doubt it has
been confiscated.") Nevertheless, with every passing day Haladdin had more and more
respect, if not quite love, for this slightly ironical man of few words. Looking at the baron,
for the first time he could relate to the idea of 'inborn nobility.' Another quality he could
sense in Tangorn was unusual for an aristocrat - dependability, of a kind different from, say,
Tzerlag' s, but quite certain all the same.

Being of the third estate, Haladdin had always had a lukewarm view of aristocracy.
He could never understand how one could be proud not of the actual achievements of one's
ancestors, whether in labor or war, but rather of how far one could trace their genealogy,
especially since most of those "noble knights" had been nothing but (to call a spade a spade)
lucky and ruthless highway robbers, murder their trade and betrayal their calling. Besides,
the doctor had despised idlers since childhood. Still, he felt subconsciously that were the
useless and immoral aristocracy to disappear, the world would irretrievably lose some of its
color; most likely it would become more just, perhaps more clean, but for sure more dull,
and that alone was worth something! After all, he himself was part of a brotherhood much

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more exclusive than any based on heredity; Haladdin knew with absolute certainty that he
had been knighted by Someone much more powerful than the King of the Reunited
Kingdom or the Caliph of Khand. Isn't it strange that almost nobody realizes how
undemocratic science and art are by their very nature . . .

The sergeant interrupted his musings by suggesting that they draw for the first watch.
A small desert owl drifted like a giant feather some fifteen feet over their heads, its mournful
hoot reminding all the good children to go to bed already. "You crash, guys," Haladdin
offered, "I'm going to clean up, too." Actually, this whole evening - with a fire, however
well concealed, and no sentry for a while - was a major security lapse. However, Tzerlag
had judged the risk to be very small, since the search for Eloar had been called off and
Elvish patrols did not stray far from the highway otherwise. After all, people have to relax
sometime; constant vigilance can backfire, too.

The fire had died down in the meantime - salsolas produce almost no embers, turning
directly into ash - and Haladdin put Tzerlag' s 'Khandian' bowl into the brewing pot and
took it down to the stream to wash up. He had already put the clean pot down on the shore
gravel and was warming fingers numb from icy water with his breath when quick flickers on
the surrounding boulders told him that the fire was building up again. Who's still up? - he
wondered, - can't see anything against the firelight . . . The black silhouette by the fire was
motionless, its hands stretched towards the quickly rising orange flames. The circle of light
widened smoothly, illuminating their piled packs, Tangorn's crutches leaning against a
boulder, and both sleeping forms ... Both?! So who's sitting by the fire? Suddenly the
doctor realized something else: he had gone on his twenty-yard dishwashing mission
without any weapons. No weapons at all, which probably had just doomed his sleeping
friends.

The person sitting by the fire turned unhurriedly towards the hapless sentry and made
a commanding beckoning gesture. It was clear as day that had he so desired, all three of
them would have been dead by now. Haladdin made his way back to the fire in a kind of a
daze, sat down opposite the black-cloaked intruder - and caught his breath as if hit with a
body blow: the closely drawn cowl concealed nothing but emptiness, with two dim scarlet
embers gazing intently at him from the inside. He was facing a nazgiil.

Chapter 15

The Nazgiil! An ancient magical order, ever surrounded by most dire rumor. Black
wraiths supposedly in touch with the highest powers of Mordor; the miracles ascribed to
them were such as no serious person would ever believe. Nor had Haladdin believed that,
but now a nazgiil was here for his soul . . . Having said that common phrase in his mind, he
almost bit his tongue. Despite being a skeptic and a rationalist, Haladdin had nevertheless
always understood clearly that some things are better left untouched, lest one lose his fingers
. . . Suddenly he heard a voice, quiet and a little husky, with a hard-to-place accent, issuing,
it seemed, not from the darkness under the hood, but from somewhere off to the side, or
from above:

"Are you afraid of me, Haladdin?"

"Well, how shall I put it..."

"Put it straight: yes, I'm afraid. You see, I could have assumed ... er ... a more
neutral appearance, but I've too little strength left. So please bear with me, it'll not be for
long. Although it must be creepy to one unused to such things."

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"Thank you," Haladdin answered gruffly, feeling his fear suddenly dissipate without a
trace. "Could you at least introduce yourself, since you know me but I don't know you?"

"Actually, you do know me, if only by hearsay: Sharya-Rana, at your service." The
edge of the cowl dipped in a small bow. "To be more precise, I was Sharya-Rana in my
previous life."

"Amazing!" Now Haladdin was sure that he was dreaming, and tried to behave
accordingly. "A personal conversation with Sharya-Rana himself - I would' ve gladly given
five years of my life for that. By the way, you have a rather interesting lexicon for a
Vendotenian who lived more than a century ago."

"It's your lexicon, not mine." Haladdin could have sworn that for a split second the
emptiness under the cowl coalesced into a smirk. "I'm simply using your words, it's no
effort for me. But if you dislike it . . ."

"No, it's fine." Delusion, sheer delusion! "But tell me, honored Sharya-Rana, they
say that all the Nazgiil are former kings?"

"There are kings among us, too, as well as doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, and
such. As you can see, some of us are mathematicians."

"So is it true that after publishing The Natural Basis of Celestial Mechanics you
turned completely to theology?"

"Yes, but that, too, is all behind me, in my former life."

"And when you leave those former lives, you simply shed your tired flesh and acquire
unlimited powers and immortality?"

"No. We are long-lived, but mortal. Indeed, we are always nine - that is the tradition
- but members of the Nine change. As for unlimited powers ... it's really an unimaginably
heavy burden. We are the magic shield that had for ages protected the little oasis of Reason
in which your light-minded civilization had so comfortably nestled. It is absolutely alien to
the World in which we had to be born, and Middle Earth is struggling against this alien
presence with all the might of its magic. When we manage to absorb a blow, we
dematerialize, and then it is simply very painful; whereas when we make a mistake and a
blow reaches your little world . . . What we feel then has no name in any human language:
all the World's pain, all the World's fear, all the World's despair is the payment for our
work. If you only knew how emptiness can hurt ..." The burning coals under the hood
seemed filmed with ash momentarily. "In other words, you shouldn't envy us our powers."

"Forgive me," Haladdin mumbled. "None of us even suspect ... they tell all kind of
tales about you ... I myself thought that you're phantoms that don't care about the real
world."

"On the contrary, we do care a lot. For example, I'm well acquainted with your
work."

"Really?!"

"Yes, quite. Congratulations: what you did the year before last with your study of
nerve tissue will inaugurate a new era in physiology. Not sure that you'll make it into a
school textbook, but a university course certainly . . . provided that after the recent events
this world will ever have textbooks and universities."

"Yeah?" Haladdin was doubtful. Sure, to hear this kind of praise from Sharya-Rana
himself (provided that this was, indeed, Sharya-Rana) was pleasant beyond belief, but the
great mathematician seemed not so competent in a foreign subject. "I'm afraid that you're
confusing a few things. I did indeed achieve some good results studying how poisons and

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antidotes function, but that work with nerve fibers was just a fleeting whim. A couple of
cute experiments, a hypothesis that still needs a lot of checking ..."

"I never confuse anything," the nazgiil snapped coldly. "That little paper is the best
work you have done and will ever do; at the very least, you've immortalized your name. I
say this not because I believe it, but because I know it. We have some ways to see the
future, and use them sometimes."

"Well, sure, you must be interested in the future of science."

"In this particular case our interest was you rather than science."

"Me?!"

"Yes, you. Still, not everything is clear, which is why I'm here to ask a few questions.
Most of them will be ... rather personal, and I only ask for one thing: please answer as
honestly as you find acceptable, but don't invent anything; that'd be useless anyway. And
please stop looking around all the time already! There are no other people for ..." - the
nazgiil paused for a moment - "at least twenty-three miles in any direction from your camp,
and your friends will sleep soundly until we're done here. So - are you ready to answer
under those conditions?"

"As I understand it," Haladdin smiled crookedly, "you can obtain my answers without
my consent."

"Yes, I can," the nazgul nodded, "but I will not. Not with you, anyway. The thing is,
I have a certain proposition for you, so we must at least trust each other . . . Wait, do you
think I'm here to buy your immortal soul?" Haladdin mumbled something unintelligible.
"Oh, please - that's complete nonsense!"

"What's nonsense?"

"Buying a soul, that's what. Be it known to you that a soul can be obtained as a gift,
as a sacrifice, it can be lost - but it can be neither bought nor sold. It's like love: there's no
give-and-take, otherwise it's just not love. Besides, I'm really not that interested in your
soul, to be honest."

"Really?" Strangely, that stung. "So what interests you, then?"

"To begin with, I'm interested in finding out why a brilliant scientist would quit the
job which was the meaning of his life rather than just a livelihood, and volunteer as an army
field medic."

"Well, for example, he was interested in verifying some of his ideas about how
poisons work in practice. Such a wealth of data was being lost, you know ..."

"So the Elf-wounded soldiers of the South Army were nothing but guinea pigs to you?
That's a lie! I know you like my own two hands, from your idiotic experiments on yourself
to . . . Why the hell are you trying to seem more cynical than you are?"

"But the practice of medicine does predispose one to certain cynicism, especially
military medicine. You know, they give this test to all novice field medics. Say that you get
three wounded men: one with a belly wound, one with a serious thigh wound - open break,
blood loss, shock, the works - and one with a glancing shoulder wound. You can only
operate on one at a time, so where do you start? Surely, all the novices say, it's the belly
wound. Bad guess, says the examiner. While you're busy with him, and it's nine out of ten
that he's going to die anyway, the guy with the thigh wound will get complications and will
at least lose his leg, and most likely die, too. So you have to start with the most serious
wound among those with a decent chance of survival - in our case, the thigh wound. As for
the belly wound, well ... give the man an analgesic and leave him to the One's will. To a

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nomial person this must seem the height of cynicism and cruelty, but in war you can only
choose between bad and worse, so this is the only way. It was only in Barad-dur that we
could talk nicely, over tea and jam, about how every human life is invaluable ..."

"Something doesn't add up here. If all your considerations are based on pure
expediency, why did you lug the baron on your back and risk your whole team, rather than
administer the 'strike of mercy'?"

"Where's the contradiction? It's plainly obvious that you have to help your comrade
to the utmost, even at the greatest risk: you save him today, he'll save you tomorrow. As for
the 'strike of mercy,' don't worry - were it necessary, we would've done it in the best form
... It used to be better in the old times, when wars were declared in advance, didn't involve
peasants, and a wounded man could simply surrender. Too bad that we weren't bom then,
but no inhabitant of those glass-house times can cast a stone at us."

"A beautiful exposition. Field Medic, sir, but I suspect that you'd have asked the
sergeant to perform the 'strike of mercy'. No? All right, another question then, again about
expediency. Has it occurred to you that a leading physiologist sitting in Barad-dur and
studying antidotes professionally could save a lot more lives than a field medic with the
skills of a nurse?"

"Of course it has. It's just that - sometimes there are situations when a man has to do
an obviously stupid thing just to retain his self-respect."

"Even if this self-respect is ultimately bought with others' lives?"

"Well ... I don't know. After all, the One may have His own ideas about that."

"So you make the decision, but the One bears responsibility for it? Neat deal!
Haven't you told the same thing to Kumai in almost the exact same words I've just used?
Remember? You had no chance, of course - once a Troll decides something, that' s the end
of it. 'We may not sit out the battle which will decide the fate of the Motherland' - and so
an excellent mechanical engineer becomes an army engineer second class. A truly priceless
acquisition for the South Army! In the meantime it seems to you that Sonya is looking at
you strangely: sure, her brother is fighting at the front lines while her bridegroom is cutting
up rabbits at the University like there isn't a war on. So then you can think of nothing
smarter to do than to follow Kumai' s example (truly it is said that stupidity is contagious),
so that the girl is bereft of both brother and bridegroom. Am I right?"

For some time Haladdin stared at the flames dancing over the coals (strange thing: the
fire keeps burning, although the nazgul doesn't seem to be adding any wood). He had the
distinct feeling of having been exposed in something unbecoming. What the hell! . . .

"In other words, doctor, your head is a total mess, if you pardon the expression. You
can make decisions, no question about that, but can't complete a single logical construct;
rather, you slide into emotionalism. However, in our case this is actually not bad."

"What's not bad?"

"You see, should you decide to accept my proposition, you will thereby take on an
opponent that is immeasurably more powerful than you are. However, your actions are
frequently totally irrational, so he'll have a hell of a time predicting what you'll do. It is
quite possible that this is our only hope."

Chapter 16

"That's interesting," Haladdin said after some thought. "Go ahead, tell me your
proposition, I'm intrigued."

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"Wait a bit, all in good time. First of all, be aware that your Sonya is alive and well,
and even relatively safe. So you can actually take her and go to Umbar or Khand to
continue your studies; after all, it is precisely the accumulation and preservation of
knowledge that ..."

"Enough already!" Haladdin grimaced. "I'm not leaving here for anywhere ... that's
what you wanted to hear, right?"

"Right," Sharya-Rana nodded. "However, a person should have a choice, and for
people like you it's especially important."

"Ri-i-i-ight, just so that later you can shrug and say: 'You got into this crap all by
yourself, buddy - no one was prodding you with a sharp stick!' What if I do, indeed, tell
you to get lost and beat it to Umbar - what then?"

"Well, you won't! . . . Haladdin, please don't think that I'm daring you. There will be
plenty of work to be done here, very hard and mortally dangerous work, so we will need
everybody: soldiers, mechanics, poets ..."

"Poets? Why them?"

"They will be needed, perhaps, more than all the rest. We will have to save everything
that can still be saved on this Earth, but first and foremost, the memory of who we are and
who we were. We must preserve it like embers under the ashes - in the catacombs or in the
diaspora - and poets are indispensable for that."

"So I will take part in those rescues?"

"No, not you. I have to tell you a sad secret: all our current activity in Mordor can't
really change anything. We have lost the most important battle in the history of Arda - the
magic of the White Council and the Elves overcame the magic of the Nazgiil - and now the
green shoots of reason and progress, bereft of our protection, will be weeded out mercilessly
throughout Middle Earth. The forces of magic will reconfigure this world to their liking,
and henceforth it will have no room for technological civilizations like that of Mordor. The
three-dimensional spiral of history will lose its vertical component and collapse into a closed
cycle; centuries and ages will pass, but the only things to change will be the names of the
kings and the battles they win. As for Men . . . Men will forever remain pitiful deficient
creatures who will not dare raise their eyes to look at the masters of the world - the Elves; it
is only in a changing world that a mortal can turn his curse into a blessing and rise above the
Immortals through generational improvement. In two or three decades the Elves will turn
Middle Earth into a well-trimmed tidy lawn, and Men into cute pets; they will deprive Man
of a very small thing - his right to Create, and grant him a myriad of plain and simple
pleasures instead . . . Actually, Haladdin, I can assure you that the vast majority of people
will make this trade without remorse."

"The vast majority doesn't concern me, let them take care of themselves. So the Elves
are our real enemies, not the Gondorians?"

"The Gondorians are victims just as you are, we're not talking about them here.
Strictly speaking, the Elves are not your enemies, either, not in the usual sense; can you call
Man the enemy of deer? Certainly Man hunts deer - so what's the big deal about that? He
also guards them in royal forests, sings the majestic strength of the old buck, gets
sentimental looking in does' eyes, feeds an orphaned fawn from his hand ... So the current
cruelty of the Elves is a temporary measure; in a sense, it's forced. When the World
becomes static, they will for sure tread lighter; after all, the capability to Create is
undoubtedly a deviation from the norm, so such people will be treated, rather than killed as

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they are now. Nor will the Immortals have to get their own hands dirty - there'll be plenty
of human volunteers ... there already are ... By the way, this future Elvish world will be
pretty good in its own way - a stagnant pond is certainly less aesthetically pleasing than a
stream, but it grows such wonderful water poppies ..."

"I see. So how can we prevent them from turning Middle Earth into this . . . swamp
with beautiful water poppies?"

"I'll explain, but I have to start at the very beginning. It's a pity that you're not a
mathematician, the explanation would' ve been easier ... just ask me right away if
something is unclear, all right? Now: every inhabited World has two components; really,
they are two different worlds, which have their own laws but co-exist in a single 'wrapper.'
They are customarily called 'physical' and 'magical,' although those designations are rather
arbitrary, in that the magical world is quite real and is, in that sense, physical, while the
physical one has certain properties which are not reducible to physics and can be considered
magical. In the case of Arda these are Middle Earth and Aman, inhabited by their sentient
races of Men and Elves. These worlds are parallel, but their inhabitants perceive the
boundary between them as a temporal rather than a spatial one: every human knows that
there are no wizards, dragons, or goblins now, but his grandparents had surely seen them all
- and this persists in every generation. It is not a figment of imagination, as many think, but
a natural consequence of the two-part structure of inhabited Worlds. I could show you the
appropriate mathematical models, but you won't be able to make heads or tails out of them.
Are you with me so far?"

"Yes, quite."

"Very well. For some unknown reason (you can think of it as the One's strange
whim), in our Arda, and only in our Arda, there is direct contact between the physical and
magical worlds, which allows its inhabitants to interact in real space-time - or, to put it
simply, to shoot at each other. The existence of this interspatial 'corridor' is provided by the
so-called Mirror. Some time ago it had arisen in the magical world - arisen, rather than was
made - together with the seven Seeing Stones, the palantiri, and can't exist without them,
since both the Mirror and the palantiri are the product of separation of the same substance,
namely the Eternal Fire ..."

"Wait, isn't a palantir a device for long-distance communication?"

"Yes, it can be used for that. You can also drive nails with one . . . actually, no, that'd
be inconvenient, they're round and slippery. But they'd make great fishing weights! You
see, each of those magical objects has innumerable properties and uses, but in this world we
don't even have names for most of them. Which is why they're used for all sorts of
nonsense: palantiri for communication, the Mirror for primitive future-telling . . ."

"Some primitive nonsense!"

"I assure you, this is total nonsense compared to some of its capabilities. Besides, the
Mirror portrays not the objective future of Arda, but various alternatives - yes, alternatives -
of the individual fate of the gazer. You of all people, being an experimental scientist, should
know that any measuring device affects the state of whatever is being measured, and here
the 'device' is a person, a creature with free will ..."

"Well, whatever you say, predicting the future is impressive."

"You're so fixated on this prediction business," Sharya-Rana said in annoyance.
"What about violating the law of causality - does that impress you?"
"The law of what?!"

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"Of causality - yes, the very one. All right, we'll get to the law of causality yet. So
far, all you need to remember is that in general the palantiri control space and the Mirror
controls time. Next: the two worlds of Arda are asymmetric in all parameters, so this
'channel' between them works very selectively. For example, many magical creatures are
quite at home here, but only a few mortals have ever managed to visit Aman, and then for a
very short time. These people are called wizards in Middle Earth."

"Are the Nazgiil wizards, too?"

"Of course. To continue, this asymmetry had been balanced by a very important fact.
As severely limited as the wizards' capabilities are in that neighboring world, it so happened
that they nevertheless managed to obtain the Mirror and the palantiri and drag the whole lot
over here, to Middle Earth. As a result, the Elves can settle in Middle Earth while Men can't
settle in Aman, but control over the 'channel' between the worlds remains in the hands of
wizards, who are of this world. This enables contact, but disables any colonization. As you
can see, the One had set up a well thought-out system."

"Right - the twin-key principle."

"Exactly. The only thing He had not anticipated was that some of the wizards were so
taken with Aman that they decided to mold Middle Earth in its form and image at any cost;
they constitute the White Council. The others, who later formed the Order of the Nazgiil,
were emphatically opposed: what sane person would destroy his own world to build a bad
copy of an alien one on its ruins? Both sides had their reasons, both sincerely wanted to
make the people of Middle Earth happier ..."

"Yeah, I get it."

"Right. When the White Council and the Nazgiil clashed over the future of Middle

Earth, both sides quickly found natural allies. We began helping out the dynamic
civilizations of Central Middle Earth - Mordor first and foremost, and Umbar and Khand to
some extent - while the White Council relied on the traditional societies of the North and
West, and the Enchanted Forests, of course. At first the Whites were completely sure of a
quick victory, since they happened to possess the Mirror and most of the palantiri when the
war broke out. They have, for all intents and purposes, opened Middle Earth to Elvish
expansion in order to mobilize all forces of magic against Mordor, both local and foreign.
The only thing the White Wizards hadn't foreseen was that our way, the way of Freedom
and Knowledge, was so attractive that lots of people - the best in Middle Earth - came to
serve as the magical shield of the Mordorian civilization. One after another they
dematerialized under the blows of Western magic, but others took their place. In other
words, Haladdin, your peace had been dearly bought. There is no higher price."
"Why didn't we know any of that?"

"Because it didn't really concern you. The only reason I mention it now is to ask you
to remember that if you join the struggle, you will be fighting for them, too . . . But this is
just sentimental icing on the cake. To make a long story short: the situation was highly
unfavorable, but we did manage, at the cost of all those sacrifices, to shield the Mordorian
civilization, and it had made it out of the crib. Another fifty, maybe seventy years, and you
would' ve completed the industrial revolution, and then no one would' ve been able to touch
you. From that point on the Elves would've dwelled quietly in their Enchanted Forests, not
getting in anyone's way, while the rest of Middle Earth would've by and large gotten onto
your path. And so, realizing that they were about to lose the contest, the wizards of the
White Council dared a monstrous move: they unleashed a war of total destruction against

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Mordor, involved the Elves directly, and paid them with the Mirror."
"They paid the Elves with the Mirror?!"

"Yes. It was total madness; the head of the White Council himself, Saruman, a
foresighted and perceptive man, fought this plan to the last, and quit the White Wizards
when it was adopted after all. The Council is now headed by Gandalf, the architect of the
'final solution to the Mordorian problem.'"

"Wait, which Saruman is that? The king of Isengard?"

"The same. He formed a temporary alliance with us because he understood right away
what those games with the denizens of the Enchanted Forests mean to Middle Earth. He
used to warn the White Council for the longest time: 'Using the Elves in our struggle against
Mordor is akin to burning down the house to get rid of roaches.' And that's exactly how it
came out. Mordor lies in ruins, and the Mirror is in Lorien, with the Elvish Queen
Galadriel; soon the Elves will brush the White Council away like crumbs off the table and
rule Middle Earth as they see fit. Remember I mentioned the law of causality? Well, the
main difference between the magical and our worlds is that this law doesn't hold there; or,
rather, its sway is very limited. When the Elves figure out the Mirror's properties - which
will be difficult even for them, since they've never encountered it before - and understand
that it can control the law of causality, they will immediately and forever turn our world into
a dirty backwater of Aman."

"So, this means . . . there's actually no way out?" Haladdin asked quietly.

"There is one. So far, there is. The only way to save Middle Earth is to completely
isolate it from the magical world. To do that, Galadriel' s Mirror must be destroyed."

"Can we do it?" The doctor shook his head dubiously.

"We - if you mean the Nazgul - can not. Not any more. But you, Field Medic
Second Class Haladdin, can. Only you, and no other," unearthly cold suddenly wafted at
him from Sharya-Rana's pointing arm, "are capable of shattering the very foundation of the
Elves' magical power and preserving this World as it is."

Chapter 17

Silence fell. Stupefied, Haladdin stared at the nazgul, awaiting clarification.

"Yes, you've heard that right, doctor. You see, right now, all across Mordor, hundreds
of wonderful people - including your Sonya - are carrying out our common task. They fight
as guerillas, transport children to safe places, set up secret repositories of knowledge for the
future . . . They risk their lives every hour in the ruins of Barad-dur, abase themselves in
occupation administration, die under torture. They're doing everything humanly possible,
not thinking of themselves and not expecting any gratitude from anyone. But it is up to you,
Haladdin - you alone! - to determine whether all these sacrifices will be a down payment on
a victory or merely an extension of agony. I would love to relieve you of this terrible
burden, but I can't. It's yours; so it comes out."

"No, this has to be some kind of mistake!" He shook his head vigorously in protest.
"Something got confused somewhere. You say 'shatter the Elvish magic,' but I don't know
the first thing about magic ! I've never had any talent for it; I can't do even the simplest trick
like finding a hidden object with a frame."

"You don't even know how right you are! A complete lack of any magical ability
such as yours is incredibly rare, almost impossible. You see. Nature had deprived you of a
sword, but gave you a wonderful shield instead: a man who is totally incapable of magic is

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also totally immune to others' magic. The Elves are in such power now that they can easily
wipe out any wizard, but they'll have to deal with you by the rules of the rational world,
where your chances are more on a par. Plus this tendency of yours towards unpredictable
emotional decisions is no walk in the park, either . . . Frankly, the chance of success is very
small, but in all other alternatives there are none."

"But please see that I can't do a job that I don't understand!" He was in despair. "That
I'll die is not such a big deal, but to doom the efforts of so many people? No, I can't!
Besides - you've just said that Sonya is safe and I can take her to Umbar, and now it seems
like she's working for you, too? How so?"

"Don't worry about Sonya, she's splendid. I saw her in Barad-diir back then. The city
burned for several days straight, the Men of the West couldn't even enter it, and there were
numerous people in the basements - the children, the wounded . . . She was searching for
people under ruins and did totally impossible things sometimes. You must know she has
this gift of absolute fearlessness; she can be afraid for someone else, but never for herself.
By the way, have you noticed that women have this gift incomparably more often than men?
Understand this: nothing can happen to a person who is not afraid; it is not for naught that
her medical squad considered her a living talisman. This is real ancient magic, not some
cheap spell, please trust a professional. She is now in one of our hideouts in the Ash
Mountains - thirty-six children from Barad-diir and Mama Sonya. That place is as safe as
can be."

"Thank you."

"Not at all, she's in her rightful place. Listen, Haladdin, I think I've scared you too
much with all this highfaluting talk. Don't look so downcast! Please summon your healthy
cynicism and look at this business as a purely scientific, theoretical challenge. A mental
exercise, you know - putting together a puzzle."

"You, of all people, should know," Haladdin responded gloomily, "that a scientist
won't lift a finger until he's certain that he has all pieces of the puzzle and that it
theoretically has a solution. Searching a dark room for a black cat that's not even there is
not science, that's the philosophers' business."

"I can reassure you that there definitely is a cat in our dark room, the problem is how
to catch it. Here, then, is the puzzle. Given: a large magical crystal, code name 'Mirror,'
located smack in the middle of the Enchanted Forest, in Lorien, at Elf Queen Galadriel's.
Problem: to destroy said crystal. Care to give it a try?"

"Parameters of this crystal?" Haladdin joined the game without much desire.

"Ask away!"

"Eh . . . Well, to begin with: shape, size, weight?"

"It is shaped like a lens. Dimensions: one-and-a-half yards in diameter and a foot
thick. Weight: about a thousand pounds, not for one man to lift. Besides, it most likely has
a metal setting."

"All right . . . Mechanical strength?"

"Absolute, just like that of the palantiri."

"What do you mean - 'absolute'?"

"I mean literally absolute - impossible to break."

"Whoa! Then how? ..."

"This information," the nazgiil's voice was suddenly metallic and officer-like, "is
already in your possession, so please use your memory."

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Damn, just what I need ... get lost, willya? Wait, what was that he'd said about the
Mirror and the palantiril . . .

"The Mirror and the palantiri arose as products of separation of the Eternal Fire, so
the same Fire would destroy them, right?"

"Bravo, Haladdin! Precisely so, and in no other manner."

"Wait a second, where am 1 supposed to obtain this Eternal Fire?"

"The entire Orodruin is at your service."

"Are you kidding? Where's Orodruin and where' s Lorien?"

Sharya-Rana spread his hands: "This is precisely the riddle."

Haladdin shook his head. "Yeah, no joke ... So: one, sneak into the Elvish capital;
two, charm their queen; three, steal a thousand-pound medallion; four, drag it to Orodruin . . .
all right, I won't count chucking it into the crater as a separate task . . . and 1 have how long
to do all that?"

"Three months," the nazgiil said drily. "A hundred days, to be precise. If you're not
done by the first of August, you can wind up the operation - it won't help anyone any
more."

To appease his conscience, Haladdin had actually tried solving this crazy riddle,
wracking his mind for about three minutes - no way, no how! - and finally asked with
evident relief: "All right, Sharya-Rana, 1 give up. What's your solution?"

"1 don't have one," the other replied calmly, turned what used to be a face towards the
stars and muttered with a strange sadness: "How time flies . . . less than an hour left . . ."

"What do you mean, you don't have one?" Haladdin finally managed to stammer.
"Didn't you say that there is a solution?"

"True, there is, but 1 don't know what it is. Even if 1 knew, 1 would not have been
able to divulge it to you, as that would immediately doom the entire enterprise. The rules of
this game stipulate that you have to travel this road all by yourself. This doesn't mean that
you have to go it alone; you're free to accept any technical help from other people at your
discretion, but all the decisions have to be yours alone. As for myself, I stand ready to
provide any information that can be useful in your mission, but no concrete hints; consider
me a sort of an Encyclopedia of Arda, but bear in mind that you have less than an hour."

"Any information?" Curiosity overcame all his other feelings.

"Any non-magical information," the nazgiil corrected. "Anything your heart desires:
mithril technology. Elvish dynasties, the Ring of Power, Mordor's sleeper agents in Minas
Tirith and Umbar - ask away, Haladdin."

"Wait a second - you said 'non-magical' and just mentioned the Ring of Power! How

so?"

"Listen," Sharya-Rana remarked somewhat irritably, glancing at the sky again, "you
only have about fifty minutes. Honestly, that stupid business involved no magic and has no
bearing on your mission!"

"That's a concrete hint, by the way!"

"Touchel All right, if you can spare the time - listen. It's up to you now to decide
what's important and what isn't."

He regretted his curiosity, as he understood that those memories were rather
unpleasant to Sharya-Rana. But the nazgul had already begun his tale, and once again it
seemed to Haladdin that the darkness under the cowl hid a ghostly sarcastic grin.

"This had been one of our many attempts to split the Western coalition, which.

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unfortunately, did no good. We had a fancy ring made - the goldsmiths had a lot of fun -
spread a rumor that it's supposed to confer power over the entire Middle Earth, and shipped
it over Anduin. The hope was that the Gondorians and the Rohirrim would battle each other
over this little gift. Well, those did indeed swallow the bait, hook, line, and sinker, but
Gandalf figured out whose idea it was right away. To save the Western coalition from
falling apart, he tricked them all: got to the Ring first, but rather than keep it, caused it to be
thoroughly lost.

"He hid it really well; it took our intelligence service more than two years to pick up
the trail. It turned out that the Ring was in the Shire. That's a backwater in the far North-
west: whitewashed shutters, hollyhock gardens, a pig in the mud in the middle of the main
street ... So what to do? Neither the Gondorians nor the Rohirrim have ever set foot in this
Shire. Steal the Ring and drop it off at Anduin again - that would' ve been a dead giveaway.
So someone had a good idea: to pretend that we're seeking the Ring, too, and thus dislodge
its Shire keeper. But in our conceit we Nazgiil decided to do this ourselves, quick and easy,
here today, gone tomorrow ... It was stupid for us to get involved directly; this was way
below our pay grade, to put it mildly, but a dilettante is always a dilettante, no matter how
smart he is. Two real spies would' ve done a lot more good than our entire Order.

"The Nazgiil can actually assume any appearance they want, but back then we used
our real look, just like now. Take yourself - you're an educated man, and still you paled a
little, so how much more so the local yokels? To make a long story short, we dressed to
impress and paraded in a few local towns, just about shouting from the rooftops: 'Where's
the keeper of the Ring of Power? Get him over here!' It's a good thing they don't even
have police over there, let alone a counter-intelligence service; the professionals would've
realized immediately that this was not how you catch someone, not at all! Well, those
village simpletons - the Ring-keeper and his friends - took it all for real, so we herded them
East slowly, just scaring them once in a while so they wouldn't hang around the taverns too
much. In the meantime, our people led Gondorian Prince Boromir to them. The whole
operation was for his sake, really: that guy was ready to make glue from his father's bones
to get the Ring of Power. So when the prince joined the team together with a bunch of other
people, we thought it all set - no more need for us to shadow that gang and make them
nervous. Now our ring will sail clear to Minas Tirith with no problems . . . We tasked a
company of Orocuens to escort the Ring and forgot all about it - and paid for that. Some
time later our people watching the Anduin spotted a funeral boat, checked it - surprise!
Boromir! Apparently they had some sort of a brawl in the company, and someone bested
him. No one has seen the Ring since then, nor has anyone looked; whatever for?

"So, to sum it up, we've screwed this one up royally, no question, I'm still ashamed to
remember it . . . So, doctor, have you been amused by this morality tale? Are you even
Ustening?"

"My sincere apologies, Sharya-Rana!" Haladdin finally tore his fixed gaze from the
orange embers and suddenly smiled. "This story gave me an idea somehow. I may have
found a solution to this puzzle ... or at least an approach to a solution. Tell me - by the
rules of this game, may I share it with you, or would it be a hint?"

Chapter 18

"No," Sharya-Rana said after some thought. "I mean - no, it won't be a hint. Tell me
your solution."

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"Please tell me about the palantiri first, all right?"

"As you please. Those, too, are magical crystals; with your limitations in this area
they can only interest you as a means of communication. Anything surrounding one crystal
can be transmitted to another - images, sounds, smells. Let me stress: it is the phenomenon
itself that gets transmitted, rather than information about it. How this happens is rather
difficult to understand, nor do you need to. Thoughts and feelings don't get transmitted, of
course, that's a fairy tale. A palantir can work in sending, receiving, or two-way mode; in
principle, it is possible to set up contact between more than two crystals, but that is very
complicated."

"What do they look like?"

"A ball of smoky crystal, about the size of a child's head."

"So they're portable, at least, that's a big plus. Then here's the idea. The seven
palantiri and the Mirror are a complementary pair and can't exist without each other, right?
So instead of the Mirror we can drop the palantiri into Orodruin, with the same result! You
will tell me where to look for them; would that be legal?"

"Hmm ... Ingenious! Unfortunately, this is technically impossible, at least as far as I
can see. The thing is, you'd need all seven to succeed, and some palantiri are quite out of
reach. We have only one in Mordor, that one's not a problem. I surmise that Aragom
grabbed Denethor's palantir, and Gandalf has Saruman's. Those are at least within
theoretical reach, so that's three. But then there's the palantir of the Western Elves; their
ruler Cirdan keeps it in the tower of Elostirion in Emyn Beraid - how is that any better than
Lorien, it's only further away? Finally, there is the palantir of Osgiliath, tossed into the
Anduin ages ago - who knows where it is by now? - and the two of Amor, from Anniiminas
and the tower of Amon Stil; those are in a sunken ship at the bottom of the Bay of Forochel.
I can give you exact coordinates if you wish, but I really don't see how that will help you."

Haladdin felt the tips of his ears burn. Impudent whelp - to think that you could solve
in three minutes a puzzle that the greatest mathematician of all time must have been
pondering for who knows how many years ... He was incredibly surprised to hear Sharya-
Rana say:

"Great job, Haladdin. Truly, only now am I really at peace. This means that you have
actually started working on this puzzle, and nothing will stop you now."

"Yes, you've suckered me in quite deftly, no question," he grumbled. "By the way,
where is our palantir, of Mordor? Just in case."

"Try guessing. Tzerlag must've taught you a few things over the last month, no?"

"Some guess! At least tell me when it was hidden?"

"Right after the Battle of Cormallen, when it became clear that Mordor would fall."
"Aha ..." He thought for a couple of minutes. "So. To begin with, where it certainly
can't be is any of your hideouts, guerilla bases, and so forth. Should I explain?"
"Not to me. Next?"

"No way you'd hide it in Barad-diir, for all of its wonderful hiding places, because of
the coming siege and fires."
"That's logical."

"To move it abroad is dicey. First, it was precisely at that time, right after Cormallen,
that the roads were at their riskiest; second, who knows what the local agents will do after
the defeat? Although it would be tempting to hide it in Minas Tirith, for example!"

"Well... All right. Accepted."

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"Caves, abandoned mines, old wells are out: there are a lot more accidental observers
around such places than is commonly known. For the same reason, can't sink it under a
buoy in some pretty cove of the Niimen - fishermen are curious folks."

"Right again."

"In other words, I would bury it in some faraway, unpopulated, and undistinguished
location, in the mountains or in the desert, noting the landmarks really well. Of course, this
carries its own risk - in a few years the boulder under which it' s been hidden might wind up
in the river together with the entire bank after a landslide . . . Actually, wait - there's a better
alternative! Abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation, where a
normal person would never go, like Minas Morgul or Dol Guldur."

"Yeah ..." drawled the nazgul, "you're real sharp. Dol Guldur it is. I took it there
myself. Used a glider and walked back, as no one else was there to operate the catapult.
The palantir is in 'receive' mode and so is invisible to the other crystals; it's in the hiding
place behind a six-sided stone in the rear wall of the fireplace in the Great Hall. It's in a
pouch made of sackcloth woven with silver, so it can be handled safely. The handles
opening the hiding place appear when two stones are pushed simultaneously: a rhombic one
next to it and the lower left one in the fireplace's arch, which can only be reached with one's
foot. Remember this, I won't repeat it."

"Could I use this palantirT

"Sure, why not?"

"Well, you said that it's a magical crystal and I'm not supposed to use any magic."
"The crystal is magical," Sharya-Rana explained patiently, "but the communication is
not. For example, if you use a palantir as a sinker, the fish you catch will not be magical."

"Then can you tell me how to use one?"

"Who are you going to contact - Gandalf? Actually, that's your business ... It's not
complicated, really. Are you familiar with optics?"
"Yes, from a university course."

"Then I'd better keep it simple. There are two constantly glowing orange sparks
within a palantir. The line connecting them coincides with the main optical axis of the
crystal ..."

Haladdin listened to the explanation quietly, marveling at how the nazgul was neatly
slotting all that complex and voluminous information into his memory. Then, weirder things

began. The tempo of Sharya-Rana' s explanations kept increasing (or, perhaps, time was
slowing - he would not have been surprised by that now), and although at any given
moment Haladdin' s brain perceived only one phrase - a glyph completely out of any context
- he was absolutely certain that whenever necessary, all this information about guerillas in
the Mountains of Shadow, palace intrigues in Minas Tirith, topography of Lorien, passwords
to contact Mordor's resident spies in all the capitals of Middle Earth, and all the rest, would
immediately surface in his memory. And when suddenly it was over and silence, thick as if
it was congealed with the morning chill, filled the camp, his first thought was that he had to
immediately find some poison in Eloar's medkit and always have it on him. Who knows
what might happen - he now knows so much that he must never be captured alive.

"Haladdin!" Sharya-Rana called; his voice was unusually quiet and halting, as if the
nazgul was catching his breath after a long climb. "Come here, please . . ."

He's in a really bad way, Haladdin recognized belatedly, how could I not have seen it
myself, selfish bastard . . . what's wrong with him? Looks Uke heart trouble. Somehow, the

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idea of heart trouble in a ghost did not seem ridiculous to him either then or in the next
moment, when he realized clearly: this is it! He had seen too many dying men over the last
few years not to be sure. The head of the sitting nazgul drooped listlessly, and he touched
the shoulder of the man now kneeling in front of him.

"Did you understand everything I've told you?" Haladdin could only nod; something
caught in his throat.

"I have nothing more to give you. Forgive me. Only the ring . . ."

"Is this because of me? Because you ... for me . . ."

"Nothing is free, Haladdin. Wait; let me lean on you . . . like that . . . The time was
almost up, but I made it. I did. The rest is not important. It's you who will walk this path
now ..."

Sharya-Rana was silent for a while, gathering strength. Then he spoke again, and his
voice was almost as even as before:

"I will now remove the spell from my ring, and ... I will be no more. You will take
it; it will empower you to act in the name of the Order of the Nazgul when necessary. Our
rings are cast from inoceramium, the most rare noble metal, a third again as heavy as gold,
can't confuse it with anything else. People fear those rings, with good reason; yours will be
clean, free of all magic, but you'll be the only one to know that. Will you be afraid?"

"No. I remember it well: nothing can happen to a person who is not afraid. Is this
really ancient magic?"

"None more ancient."

Suddenly he understood that Sharya-Rana was trying to smile but could not: the
darkness under his cowl, alive and flowing like a spring in the night not so long ago, now
resembled a brick of coal dust.

"Farewell, Haladdin, and remember: you have everything you need to win. Repeat it
as an incantation and don't be afraid of anything. Now, take this . . . and turn away."

"Farewell, Sharya-Rana. Don't worry, everything will be as it should be."

He carefully accepted a heavy dim ring from the nazgiil's hand and stepped away
obediently, so he did not see the wizard slowly push back his cowl. Only when he heard
behind him a moan filled with such anguish that his heart nearly stopped (so that's what "all
the World's pain, all the World's fear, all the World's despair" means!), did he whirl around
- but there was nothing except quickly melting shreds of the black cloak where Sharya-Rana
just sat.

"Was that you screaming?"

Haladdin turned around. His comrades, up in flash (the baron was still whirling the
wickedly glinting Slumber-maker over his head), were gazing at him dourly, awaiting
explanations.

Chapter 19

Perhaps a clandestine operations professional would have done it differently, but he
was not one, so he simply told them everything (save burdening Tzerlag with all the
'parallel worlds' stuff). He had a visit from a nazgul (here's the ring) who told him that he,
Haladdin, is the only human able to prevent the Elves from turning all of Middle Earth into
their fiefdom and all Men into serfs. To do so, he must destroy Galadriel's Mirror within a
hundred days. He has decided to accept the mission, since there's no one else to do it. So
far, he has no idea how or what to do, but hopefully he'll come up with something.

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Tzerlag looked the ring over warily and of course refused to touch it (the One preserve
us!). It was obvious that the doctor had ascended to stratospheric heights in his esteem - as
opposed to the Nazgiil, who had descended a similar distance. It's one thing to send a man
to certain death - war is war - but to give a subordinate an impossible task is quite another.
A real frontline officer would never do that. To sneak into Lorien, where no man had ever
managed to enter, to locate in a hostile town what is undoubtedly a well-guarded object,
which for good measure can't be destroyed on site, but has to be lugged a hell of a distance
... In any event, he. Sergeant Tzerlag, recon squad leader of the Cirith Ungol Rangers, will
not so much as lift a finger until he has a tangible job to do; all these 'go there - don't know
where' games are not for him. What? Well, that's your problem. Field Medic Second
Class, sir - you're the senior officer here.

Tangorn's statement was short: "I'm twice in your debt, Haladdin. Therefore, if the
third sword of Gondor can help your mission in any way, it is at your service. However, the
Sergeant is right - infiltrating Lorien directly is suicide, we'll have no chance. We need
some sort of a ruse; as I understand it, that's your department."

That was how it came to pass that he went to sleep at the end of that night the leader of
a company of three, with the other two (accomplished military professionals, unlike him)
looking to him for a tangible task - something, alas, which he did not have for them.

Haladdin spent the next day sitting by the stream; he noticed that his comrades were
gently relieving him of all housekeeping duties ("Your job now is to think"), and realized to
his acute displeasure that he was incapable of thinking to order. The sergeant had told him a
few things about Lorien (the Orocuen had once been in a raid near the edge of the Enchanted
Forest): about the paths neatly lined with stakes bearing the skulls of would-be unwanted
visitors; about the deadly traps and the roving bands of archers that shower you with
poisoned arrows and immediately melt into impassable thicket without a trace; about brooks
whose water puts humans to sleep and golden-green birds that gather around any creature
that enters the forest and give away its location with their lovely songs. After correlating
this information with what Sharya-Rana had told him about the mores and customs of the
Forest Elves he saw clearly that the Elvish society was totally closed to outsiders and any
attempt to get into the Enchanted Forest without a local guide would end within the first
mile.

He spent some time considering using the glider that Sharya-Rana had mentioned
leaving at Dol Guldur, the launch pad for Mordor's infrequent flyovers of Lorien. Suppose
he flies to the Elvish capital (or, rather, is flown there by someone who knows piloting) and
manages to land in some inconspicuous clearing; suppose further that he actually steals or
captures the Mirror; then what? How would he get it out? There is no glider catapult there,
nor anyone to operate it, nor can any glider lift a thousand pounds. Another dead end. How
about capturing an Elvish officer and having him guide their company through the
Enchanted Forest traps? No doubt he'd guide them straight into a trap; if what he's learned
about the inhabitants of Lorien is true, an Elf would choose death over treason.

The notes found among Eloar's belongings have not escaped his attention, either.
Those were mostly travel notes; the only item with useful content was an unsent letter,
beginning with 'Dearest Mother!' and addressed to 'Milady Eomis, clofoel of the Lady.'
About half of it was a description, remarkable in its artistic expressiveness, of the valley of
river Nimrodel - it seemed that both the Elf and his mother had especially fond memories
associated with that location. In general it looked like the memory of those glades with their

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malloms reaching to the very sky, where bursts of golden elanors hide in the emerald-green
grass, was what had sustained the Elf's spirit among the hated sands of Mordor. Eloar
expressed concerns over the rumored break-up between his cousin Linoel and her fiance,
criticized his older brother Elandar for 'encouraging futile hopes in the hearts of his
Umbarian proteges,' congratulated his mother on the high honor of having been chosen to
organize this year's Festival of the Dancing Fireflies . . . plus much more of the same kind of
fluff. They had already guessed that Eloar' s family was part of the highest elite of Lorien
(Sharya-Rana had explained that it was difficult to translate the Elvish title clofoel exactly -
something between a lady-in-waiting and a royal adviser). That the Elves were secretly
infiltrating all parts of Middle Earth and that one of those tasked with this covert activity
was a certain Elandar undoubtedly would be of much interest to the local authorities and
counter-intelligence services, but had no bearing on their mission. To sum it up: one more
dead end.

Haladdin suffered thusly through the day, spent half a night nursing a cup of hideously

strong tea by the fire, and finally woke up Tzerlag and went to sleep without a single idea,
placing his hopes in the coming morning. It should be mentioned that the day before,
having observed his comrades' calm businesslike preparations for the march, he resolved
firmly to break his head if that was what it took to come up with at least an intermediate
solution. Even he knew that an army without a mission quickly goes to pot.

He slept badly that night, waking intermittently and only truly sleeping close to
sunrise. He dreamed of a wonderful circus and himself - a large-eared second-grader
skipping school, fingers sticky with cotton candy. Heart almost still, he is watching an
unimaginably beautiful girl in a golden cape, impassively walking across the dark abyss on a
thinnest of golden rays; he had never seen a tightrope walker to also juggle three large balls
as she walks - how is this possible? Wait - this is Sonya! NO! Stop her - this is not her
job, she doesn't know how! . . . Yes, I understand - she can't turn back, going back is even
scarier . . . Yes, if she doesn't become afraid, nothing will happen to her, it's ancient magic.
Of course it's magic: those balls she's juggling are palantiril All the three Seeing Stones
that are in reach in this part of Middle Earth; we've collected them ourselves and turned
them over to her ... I wonder: if I and Sonya each had a palantir, would we be able to
transmit a touch?

He woke up with that thought; it turned out to be late morning. The pot was bubbling

soothingly over a fire (Tzerlag had trapped a few partridges), while Tangom was busy
polishing his beloved Slumber-maker. It was sunlight reflecting off the sword that woke up
Haladdin: his comrades obviously did not intend to disturb the doctor, but to let him get
enough sleep. He followed the reflection arcing swiftly over the boulders on the shadowed
side of the dale with his gaze and thought sadly: that's what would have no problems
reaching the palace of Lady Galadriel - a light ray ! . . .

A dazzling flash lit up all the nooks of his exhausted brain when by a wonderful
coincidence the last dream thought and the first waking thought brushed wingtips before
flying apart forever. There's your solution - send a light ray through a palantir ... He had
had such flashes of insight before (for example, when he guessed and then proved that the
signals traveling over nerve fibers were electrical, rather than chemical, in nature), and yet
each and every time there was some magic novelty in the experience, like in a lovers'
meeting. All creative work has two components: the moment of insight and then
painstaking work, sometimes for years, whose goal is to make your revelation available to

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other people. The nature of insight is always the same, whether in poetry or criminal
detection, nobody knows where it comes from (one thing is certain, though - it is not from
logic); and the moment itself, when for however brief an instant you're equal to the One
Himself, is the only thing truly worth living for.

"Gentlemen!" he announced, coming up to the fire. "It looks like I've managed to put
together this puzzle after all, or at least a substantial part of it. The idea is simple: rather
than take the Mirror to Orodruin, we will take Orodruin to the Mirror."

Tzerlag froze with a full spoon halfway to his mouth and shot a wary look to the
baron: has our commander gone nuts from all that thinking? Tangom politely raised a brow
and suggested that the doctor have some partridges first, while they're hot, and only then
broach his extravagant hypothesis.

"To hell with the partridges! Just listen! There are other magical crystals beside the
Mirror - the palantiri. We have one of them, or at least we can get it whenever we want ..."

He related everything he now knew about the Seeing Stones, marveling at his
comrades' ability, given their lack of any education in magic or science, to precisely pluck
the bits they considered important from that torrent of information. Everyone was
absolutely serious now - real work had begun.

"... So, suppose we have two palantiri - one set to receive, the other set to send. If
we drop the 'sender' into Orodruin, it will be destroyed, but not before managing to transmit
a bit of the Eternal Fire to the immediate environs of the 'receiver.' Therefore, our task is to
place one such receiver next to the Mirror."

"Well, fair sir," the baron said thoughtfully, "your idea certainly doesn't lack the
proverbial 'noble madness' ..."

Tzerlag scratched his head. "Better tell me how we're gonna get a palantir into
Lorien and find the Mirror there?"

"I don't know yet. All I can say is what I said yesterday: I hope to come up with
something."

"You're right, Haladdin," Tangom agreed. "At least we have a concrete task for now:
to find another palantir. I think that we should start in Ithilien, since Faramir is bound to
know what happened to the crystal that used to belong to his father. Besides, I'm certain
that you will quite incomparably enjoy conversing with the prince . . ."

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Part II - The King and the Steward

"And besides, when folk talk of a country covered with troops, it's but a kind of a byword at the
best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his bootsoles."
Robert L. Stevenson

Chapter 20

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
May 3, 3019

"What time is it?" Eowyn asked sleepily.

"Sleep on, sweetheart." Faramir rose on his elbow a little and gently kissed the top of
her head. Apparently it was a sharp movement in his sleep that woke up the girl; his
wounded arm kept going numb, but he never let on, knowing that she preferred to sleep
stretched along his body, her head pillowed on his shoulder. As usual, they have only fallen
asleep close to sunrise, so by now the sun's rays were already bathing the wooden buildings
of Fort Emyn Arnen, getting in the narrow window of their 'princely bedchamber.' In the
olden times the prince was invariably up with the dawn; being a morning person, his best
working hours were before noon. Now, however, he slept late with a clear conscience: first,
a honeymoon is a honeymoon; second, a prisoner has absolutely nowhere to hurry.

But she had slipped out from under his arm already, and her laughing eyes looked at
the prince with fake severity: "Listen, we'll totally undermine the public morals of the
Ithilien colony."

"Like there's something there to undermine," he grumbled. Eowyn flitted to the foot
of the bed, sat there naked and cross-legged, and began putting her ripe-wheat hairdo in

order, glancing at him from time to time from under lowered eyelashes. He had told her on
one of their first nights, only half-joking, that watching his beloved brush her hair in the
morning was one of the most intense and exquisite pleasures available to man, so now she
kept polishing and perfecting this little ritual of theirs, jealously observing his reaction: do
you still like it, darling? He smiled to himself, remembering how Prince Imrahil used to
insist that northern women, for all their beauty, are a cross between a dead fish and a birch
log in bed. I wonder if it's my good luck or his bad one for all those years?
"I'll make coffee for you."

"Now that certainly is a blow to public morals!" Faramir laughed. "The Princess of
Ithilien in the kitchen - a nightmare for any guardian of aristocratic primness!"

"I'm afraid they'll have to put up with my wildness and lack of manners. For
example, I intend to go hunting today and prepare some real baked fowl for supper, and let
them all blow their tops! I can't abide our cook's fare any more; the guy apparently knows
no spices other than arsenic and strychnine!"

She should go, he thought, and perhaps we'll start the Game today? Lately he and
Eowyn were allowed to leave the fort one at a time - enough to be grateful for; the hostage
system has its advantages.

"Will you read to me tonight?"

"Certainly. About Princess AUandale again?"

"Well ... yes!"

Those evening readings were another of their daily rituals; Eowyn had a few favorite
stories which she was ready to hear again and again, like a child. Like most of Rohan's

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nobility, the girl was illiterate, so the magical world that Faramir laid open before her totally
astonished her imagination. That was the beginning of their relationship ... or perhaps it
started earlier?

On the day of the battle for Pelennor fortifications the prince was commanding the

right defensive flank; he fought in the front line, so it was bewildering that a heavy armor-
piercing arrow struck him from behind, in the trapezius muscle to the left of the base of his
neck. Its three-sided tip had channels for poison, so by the time the good knight Mithrandir
got him to Minas Tirith the prince was in a bad way. For some reason he was carried to a
far room in the hospital and most astonishingly abandoned there. Completely helpless, he
lay right on the stone floor - the poison had caused blindness and paralysis, so that he could
not even cry for help - feeling the cold of the grave spreading uncontrollably through his
body from the already numb left arm and neck. His brain still functioned with total lucidity,
and he understood clearly that he was believed to be dead.

An eternity passed, full of loneliness and despair, and then he felt the spicy taste of
some oily liquid on his lips; the sensation seemed familiar, dredging up a half-forgotten
name: athelas. The cold retreated a little, as if unwillingly, and a commanding voice
materialized out of the darkness: "Prince, if you're conscious, move the fingers of your right
hand."

How was he supposed to move fingers he couldn't feel? Perhaps he should remember
a movement in all its details ... here, he's taking his sword out of the scabbard, feeling the
supple leather of its grip . . .

"Very good!"

Did it work? Apparently, yes.

"Now, a bigger challenge. One movement will mean 'yes,' two mean 'no'. Try
saying 'no'."

He tried to imagine making a fist twice . . . whatever for? Oh yes: here, he's taking a
pen from the table, writes down a word, puts it down; now he has to pick it up again to make
a correction . . .

"Excellent. Allow me to introduce myself: Aragorn, son of Arathom. As the direct
descendant of Isildur, I wish to express my royal gratitude to you: the dynasty of Stewards
of Gondor, of which you are the last scion, had maintained my throne well. Now this
arduous service is over: I have come to relieve your dynasty of this burden. From now and
forever your name will be the first of the glorious families of the Reunited Kingdom. Do
you understand what I'm saying, Faramir?"

He understood it all perfectly, but moved his fingers twice - 'no' - otherwise it would
mean that he implicitly agreed with this nonsense. A descendant of Isildur, right - why not
Iluvatar himself?

"You have always been an alien to them. Prince." Aragorn's voice was now quiet and
compassionate, as if he was a bosom friend. "It's quite understandable that they greatly
resented your studies; that's not a royal pursuit. However, they even blamed you for
creating the Ithilien Regiment and setting up an intelligence network beyond Anduin, didn't
they?"

Pride would not let him answer 'yes,' honesty precluded answering 'no:' all this was
true, this Aragorn really did know his Gondorian politics. When the war broke out, Faramir,
himself an excellent hunter, formed a special unit for forest combat out of free shafts (and

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not a few outlaws) - the Ithilien Regiment; the famous Cirith Ungol Rangers soon
discovered that their monopoly on lightning raids behind enemy lines was over. The prince
personally commanded the Ithilienians in a number of skirmishes (for example, the one that
trapped and destroyed a whole caravan of mumaUT) and even had time to write a sort of a
manual for what would much later be called 'commando warfare.' As a result, the
aristocrats in the capital joked that he was about to add a flail and a black mask to his
familial coat of arms. And long before the war Faramir, who had an honest and profound
love of the East and its culture, had set up a regular collection of military and political
information in its countries through volunteer efforts of like-minded people - the first real
intelligence agency in Western lands. Making his case on its reports, the prince argued in
the Royal Council for cooperation with states beyond the Anduin, earning himself the
'defeatist' label and almost getting branded as an enemy collaborationist.

"Your father had always thought you a softie, so much so as to openly look for ways
to disinherit you when Boromir died ... But this didn't bother you in the least; you even
joked back then that since the pen had callused your finger, the scepter would for sure wear
your palm to the bone - very well said, Prince, short and to the point! So - " suddenly
Aragom's voice became dry and hard, "let's say that we're simply back to the starting point:
you still have no claim to the throne of Gondor, but the new king will be me rather than your
wayward brother, the Valar rest his soul. Are you listening?"

'Yes'

"The situation, then, is like this: Denethor is dead; this is a hard blow, but 1 think
you'll survive it. There's a war on, the country is leaderless, and therefore 1, Aragorn, heir
of Isildur, having today defeated the hordes of the East on the Pelennor Fields, accept the
crown of the Reunited Kingdom at the army's request. This is set; alternatives exist only as
far as your own fate, Prince. Option number one: you abdicate the throne (remember that
yours is a dynasty of Stewards, rather than Kings!) and leave Minas Tirith to become a
prince of one of the lands of Gondor; I think that Ithilien will suit you just fine. Option
number two: you refuse, but then I will not treat you - whatever for? - and will assume the
crown after your imminent demise. By the way, nobody but me knows that you're still
alive; the funeral is set for today, and I will simply let it proceed. In a few hours you'll hear
the tombstone seal your family crypt ... I'm sure your imagination can fill in the rest. Do
you understand me, Faramir?"

The prince's fingers were silent. He had always had the calm courage of a
philosopher, but the prospect of being buried alive can instill crushing dread into any soul.

"Oh no, this won't do at all. If you don't give me a clear answer in half a minute, I'll
leave, and in a couple of hours, when the athelas wears off, the undertakers will come.
Believe me that I much prefer option one, but if you would rather have the crypt ..."

'No'

"No - meaning yes? You agree to become Prince of Ithilien?"
'Yes'

"We have a mutual understanding, then; your word is quite sufficient - so far. Some
time from now, when you regain your ability to speak, I will visit you with Prince Imrahil,
who is the temporary regent of the city and the country after the passing of Denethor. By
then Imrahil will have examined my royal credentials and will confirm them to you; you, in
turn, will confirm your decision to resign as Steward of Gondor and move to Ithilien. The
entire Gondor knows of the Prince's nobility and his friendship with you, so I expect that the

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people will duly accept his announcement. Do you agree? Answer: yes or no?!"

'Yes'

"By the way, I'll answer your unspoken question: why don't I do away with you,
option two being both simpler and more reliable? I'm being quite pragmatic here: an alive,
abdicated Faramir in IthiUen is harmless, whereas his dead body in the crypt of the Stewards
of Gondor would no doubt spawn a legion of pretenders - false Faramirs. Oh, and another
thing: I'm certain that you would not go against your given word, but just in case, bear this
in mind: no one but me in the entire Middle Earth can heal you, and this healing will take a
long time yet and can take unexpected turns ... do you understand me?"

'Yes' (What's not to understand? A simple poisoning would be the least of his
worries; what if he were turned into a vegetable, to drool and soil himself for the rest of his
life?)

"Wonderful! I'll say just one more thing in conclusion, because I believe that it's
important to you ..." To the prince's considerable amazement, there was genuine emotion
in Aragorn's voice now. "I promise to rule Gondor in such a way that you, Faramir, will
never have a single occasion to think that you would have done it better. I promise that the
Reunited Kingdom will prosper and flourish like never before. And I also promise that the
story of the King and the Steward will be so treated in all the chronicles as to glorify you
forever. Now drink this and sleep."

He came back to consciousness still in the thrall of darkness and muteness, but the
terrible cold had retreated to the location of the wound, and - happiness! - he could feel pain
and could even move a little. There were voices nearby, but they fell silent . . . And then
She appeared.

Chapter 21

At first there was only her hand, small but unwomanly strong; the hand of a rider and
a swordswoman, as he immediately determined. The girl did not possess the habits of a real
nurse, but it was obvious that treating the wounded was nothing new to her. Why is she
doing everything one-handed, though - an injury of her own, perhaps? He tried estimating
her height from how far she could reach when sitting on the edge of his bed - it worked out
to about five and a half feet. Once he was incredibly lucky: she leaned over him, and her
silky hair brushed the prince's face. Thus he learned that she was not wearing her hair up
(that meant a woman of the North, from Rohan); but most important was that now he would
never confuse this smell with any other, an aroma like that of an evening steppe breeze,
mixing the dry heat of the sun- warmed earth with the pungent refreshing smell of sagebrush.

In the meantime Aragorn's medicine was working; the very next day he could speak
his first words, which were, unsurprisingly: "What's your name?"

"Eowyn."

Eowyn ... Like the sound of a bell - not a regular brass bell, but one of those
porcelain bells that are sometimes brought from the Far East. Yes, the voice fit her owner
quite well - at least it fit the image he had put together in his mind.

"So what's the matter with your left arm, Eowyn?"

"Oh, you can see already?!"

"Alas, no; this is just a conclusion I've reached in my musings."
"Really? Explain!"

He described her appearance as he had put it together from the scraps of information

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he had.

"That's amazing!" she exclaimed. "All right, tell me - what kind of eyes do I have?"
"Most certainly large and wide-set."
"No, I mean the color?"
"The color, hmm . . . Green!"

"I've believed you!" there was genuine disappointment in the girl's voice, "but you
must've simply seen me somewhere before."

"I swear by anything, Eowyn, I've simply named my favorite color. So I guessed
right? But you still haven't told me about your arm. Have you been wounded?"

"Oh, it's only a scratch, believe me, especially compared to yours. It's just that men
have a habit of brushing us aside when dividing the spoils."

Eowyn described the Battle of the Pelennor Fields clearly and crisply, like a
professional warrior, all the while taking care of him, now giving him medicine, then
changing the dressing on the wound. It seemed to Faramir that she radiated some kind of
special warmth; it was this warmth, rather than medicines, that chased away the deathly chill
tormenting his body. But when, moved by gratitude, he covered Eowyn' s hand with his, she
took it away politely but firmly and left her charge, saying: "This is quite unnecessary.
Prince," and instructing him to ask for her should a real need arise. Saddened by this strange
rebuff, he dozed (this was real sleep now, healing and refreshing), and upon awakening
heard the tail end of a conversation, recognizing Eowyn as one of the participants and
Aragom - much to his surprise - as the other.

". . . so you'll have to go to Ithilien with him."

"But why, Ari? You know that I can't be without you now."

"It's necessary, dear. It won't be for very long - three weeks, perhaps a month."

"That is very long, but I'll do what you need, don't worry. You want me to be by his
side?"

"Yes, you'll complete his treatment, you're good at it. Plus you'll check out how he
does in the new place."

"You know, he's very nice."

"Of course! You will have excellent conversation, I think you won't be bored with

him."

"Bored? Oh, you're too kind! . . ."

"Forgive me, I didn't mean it to sound like that ..." The voices went away, a door
banged, and Faramir thought that although this was none of his business, nevertheless ...
Suddenly he cried out from an abrupt pain: previously unseen light flooded his eyes and
seemed to bum the retina that had grown unaccustomed to seeing. She was immediately by
his side, holding his hand in alarm: "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Eowyn - 1 think I'm getting my sight back."

"No, really?!"

Everything around him swam in rainbow areolas, but the pain subsided quickly.
When the prince finally managed to blink away tears and take his first look at Eowyn, his

heart skipped a beat and then poured a heat wave through his body: he was looking at the
girl he had pictured in his imagination. Not a similar girl, but that exact one, from the color
of her eyes to the gesture with which she brushed her hair aside. I've created her myself, he
thought in resignation, and now I will never get away.

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The fort of Emyn Amen, now the official residence of His Highness the Prince of
Ithilien, was not, strictly speaking, a fort. It was a log house of monumental proportions,
with three floors, an unbelievably labyrinthine plan, and a cornucopia of architectural
excesses: all sorts of turrets, dormers, and outside galleries. Nevertheless, the whole thing
looked surprisingly harmonious. One could see the hand of the master craftsmen of Angmar
in its design - it is there, in the forests of the far North, that this wood-building art
flourishes. The house was impeccably positioned from the landscaping standpoint, but
atrociously from a military one, not protecting anything. Besides, the unknown fortification
'experts' that had built the stockade around it had done it in such an obvious revulsion for
their craft that it could only serve as an exhibit for the relevant course at the Academy of
Military Engineering: "How not to build external fortifications: find eight mistakes." This
must have been why Emyn Amen had been abandoned by the Mordorians without a fight as
indefensible, and passed to its current owners intact.

It was not quite clear, actually, who these new owners were. The Prince of Ithilien
could only be called such in jest, as he was not permitted to even leave the fort alone. Much
to her surprise, his guest Eowyn, the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan, had discovered
that she shared the prince's weird status. With no hidden agenda she had asked for her
sword back, adding jokingly that she didn't feel quite dressed without it, and got a joke in
response: "A pretty girl looks even prettier underdressed." Eowyn frowned in irritation:
even by her uninhibited taste this compliment by a lieutenant of the White Company (forty
men tasked by Aragorn to their protection) bordered on a faux pas. She made a note for
herself to be on more formal terms with this bunch from now on, and requested a meeting
with the company's commander. Captain Beregond.

After all, every joke has its limits: they are not in Minas Tirith any more, walking
these woods unarmed, while there may still be goblins about, is simply unsafe. - Oh, Her
Highness has nothing to fear in this respect; the goblins are her bodyguards' problem. -
Does the Captain mean to say that those four ugly mugs are going to accompany her
everywhere? - Yes, certainly, and this is by direct order of His Majesty; although they can
be replaced, if Her Highness dislikes these four. - By the way, Aragorn is neither her
sovereign nor guardian, and if this is how it's going to be, she's coming back to Minas Tirith
right away ... actually, to Edoras, not Minas Tirith! - Unfortunately, this, too, would be
impossible without a written order from His Majesty. - So ... not to put too fine a face on
it, is she a prisoner? - Why, Your Highness! Prisoners stay under lock and key, whereas
you can ride anywhere you want. Even to Minas Morgul (the Valar preserve us), but only
with bodyguards and unarmed.

Strangely, only then did Eowyn realize that Faramir's lack of a sword could be due to
more mundane reasons than the prince's poetic disposition.

By process of elimination it would seem that Beregond was the real master of Ithilien,
but one only had to see him move charily through the corridors of the fort, avoiding eye
contact with his prisoner, to understand that this was rank nonsense. The captain was a
mined man because he knew that he had guarded Denethor's chambers on that tragic day
and that he was the one who had announced the King's suicide to the public - that is, he
knew, but he could not remember any of it. His memory of that nightmarish day sported a
large charred hole, in which Mithrandir's whitish shadow flitted sometimes; the knight
seemed to have had a hand in those events, but Beregond could not figure it out. It is hard to
say what prevented the captain from taking his own life; perhaps he realized timely that by

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doing so he would have accepted the guilt for the crime, to the delight of the real murderers.
In Minas Tirith a wall of scorn had surrounded him since that day - few believed the self-
immolation story - so Aragom could find no better candidate to lead the White Company.
The job required a man who could not possibly conspire with Faramir - and here Aragom
had made a mistake: for all his knowledge of people, he had not foreseen that the prince,
who had often sat in Beregond's lap as a child, would be perhaps the only person in all of
Gondor to believe in the captain's innocence.

As for the men of the White Company, who not only guarded the fort but also filled all
the housekeeping jobs (from majordomo to cook), they did not talk to the prince much at all.
'Yes, Your Highness; no. Your Highness; I don't know. Your Highness' - that was the
extent of the conversation, with 'don't know' a clear favorite. They were ordered to guard,
so they guarded; were they ordered to kill him, they would undoubtedly do that, too.
Faramir could not figure out whose orders those cutthroats obeyed, but he did not believe
even for a moment that it was Beregond. At the same time, there seemed to be no messages
from Aragorn, either, unless they had clandestine communications with Minas Tirith without
the captain's knowledge - but then why make it so complex?

Indeed it was a strange crowd that made its home in Emyn Arnen that spring, and the
funniest thing was that all the participants of The Prince of Ithilien and His Court show
made a touchingly united effort to keep that strangeness from becoming the subject of
discussion outside its walls, where real life went on.

In real life it was a rare day that Faramir did not bless a new set of subjects - yet
another group of settlers from Gondor. However, many of those were not at all eager to
appear at court, preferring instead to huddle in the farthest reaches of the forest; it was clear
that they regarded tax collectors as much more harmful and dangerous creatures than the
'goblins' that supposedly infested those thickets. During the war those people have learned
to wield weapons expertly and got out of the habit of bowing to landlords, so the Prince of
Ithilien would not have been able to control the fortified forest hamlets they were building
even if he wanted to, which he did not. All he did was try to convey to the newcomers that
they would not be fleeced in his demesne, and the message seemed to be getting through:
lately surly armed men from the far hamlets have been showing up at the main Settlement
with pointed inquiries about prices for honey and smoked venison. That year axes rang
throughout Ithilien: the settlers built houses, cleared forests for fields, put up mills and dry
distilleries. They were settling the forests beyond Anduin for good.

Chapter 22

More than a month has gone by since the end of the Mordorian campaign, and still
Eowyn had no message from Aragom. Well, who knows what the circumstances are ... If
she had reached any conclusions already, she kept them to herself and her behavior had not
changed a bit. The only difference was that she no longer asked Beregond daily for news
from Minas Tirith. It also seemed to Faramir that her remarkable grey-green eyes have
acquired a new, colder, bluish tint, but that would have been really supematural. The girl
treated the prince with genuine warmth and sympathy, but she had channeled their closeness
into nothing but friendship from the very beginning, and he had to accept that.

They were sitting at the dinner table in the Knights Hall of the fort, unwelcoming
because of its large size, when a Gondorian lieutenant in a dusty cloak showed up,
accompanied by several soldiers. Faramir immediately offered the messenger wine and

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venison, but the man shook his head. His business is so urgent that he will only change
horses and ride back. He has royal orders to pick up Eowyn from Emyn Amen (holding
back no longer, the girl leaned forward and her shining face seemed to dispel the gloom of
the hall) and escort her to Edoras, to the court of King Eomer.

He followed up with some Minas Tirith news of which Faramir had only consciously
registered an unfamiliar name: Arwen. Arwen - sounds like the tolling of a gong, he
thought fleetingly; I wonder what fight this gong announces ... The prince looked up at
Eowyn and his heart fell: her face was a white mask of pain, her eyes seeming to take up
half of it - a child who had just been vilely and mercilessly tricked and is now about to be
publicly mocked to boot.

But this show of weakness lasted only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of
steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave
like a miller's daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile
held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), Eowyn told
the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who
called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they were presently outside the
Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) had no objections,
she would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.

The Prince of Ithilien certainly had no objections, and the only thing that really upset
him about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn's men were under orders to
remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he had just
been using to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last scion of the ill-fated House of
Hiirin! At least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style ... The prince
happened to glance at Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled.
An astonishing change had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and
his hand rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to
confirm that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir' s side.

Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not
contemplate any violence against royal persons. Eowyn smiled again - with real charm this
time - and firmly took the upper hand:

"I'm afraid that you'll have to stay after all. Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it's
especially good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too." She addressed the butler: "Gunt!
See the King's men to the kitchen and make sure they're well fed after their journey. Oh,
and arrange for their baths !"

Eowyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the
conversation: "Please pass the salt ... Thank you ... So what's the news from Mordor,
Lieutenant? We're quite cut off here in the outback ..." It was clear, though, that she was
holding on with the last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-
tempered glass he once saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into
tiny bits with a single flick of a fingernail.

Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting at the table by the nightlight, he kept
futilely wracking his brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in
philosophy and pretty well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he
knew little about the intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a
knock and there was transparently pale Eowyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was
completely bewildered. She was already inside, though, stepping with a somnambulant's

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detachment; then the nightshirt fell down at her feet, and she ordered, head held high but
eyelashes down: "Take me, Prince! Now!"

He picked up her light body - goodness, she's shivering like crazy, must be nervous
shakes! - carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else would
serve? He looked around - aha, a flask of Elvish wine, just what she needs.

"Here, drink this, it'll warm you up."

"Wouldn't you rather warm me up in another fashion?" She spoke with her eyes
closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering intensely.

"Certainly not now. You'd hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason."

Then she knew for sure that finally, finally it was all right to cry ... So she threw
caution to the winds and cried, wept with a child's abandon, while he was hugging that
shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and whispering something into her ear -
he never could remember what he said, nor did it matter; his lips were salty with her tears.
And when she was done pouring out her pain and disgust, she crawled back into her burrow
under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: "Please tell me something ... nice." So
he recited poetry, the best verse he knew, and every time he stopped she would squeeze his
hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable child's intonation:
"More! Please, just a little more! ..."

She fell asleep in the early morning, not letting go of his hand, and he sat waiting on
the side of the bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and
removed himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise
and immediately heard an angry "Please turn away!" and then a plaintive "Listen, give me
something to put on - I can't walk around like this!" a few seconds later. Then, standing in
the door (dressed in his hunting jacket with sleeves turned up), she suddenly spoke quietly
and very earnestly: "You know, those poems ... It's something amazing, I've never
experienced anything like it. I'll come this evening, and you'll read me some more of that,
all right?" To make a long story short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras
inquiring whether Eomer had any objections to his sister's decision to become Princess of
Ithilien, evening readings were an indispensable part of their family life.

"Are you listening?"

Eowyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince,

upset.

"I'm sorry, baby; I've been thinking."
"About something sad?"

"More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Amor
sends us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic."

By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn
inside these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did Eowyn say
(abruptly and with no connection to the preceding conversation): "If you want to know what
he's like as a lover," she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest,
"I can utterly honestly say: nothing much. See, he's accustomed only to taking, all the time
and in every thing; a real macho, you know ..." Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Of
course, most women want nothing else, but I'm not one of them ..."

She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as
if making some final conclusion: "Yes, he totally could ... Do you have a plan for how to

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avoid such a gift?"

"I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us."

"Forgive me if this is not my business, but . . . this man killed your father. And a
father is a father, no matter what he's like."

"I think that Beregond is not at fault. What's more, I intend to prove it today, first and
foremost to himself."

"Why today?"

"Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved
recklessly. I haven't spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White
Company laddies might have, but now it looks like it's now or never. So please ask him to
come see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public - we have
no secrets ! And when you go hunting today, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask
the people, again casually, about a certain forest hamlet ..."

There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond' s eyes when he entered - perhaps not

all is lost?

"Hail, Your Highness!"

"Hello, Beregond; let's not be so formal. I just would like you to help me contact His
Majesty." The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball

of smoky crystal on the table.

"A Seeing Stone!" The captain was amazed.

"Yes, this is a palantir. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragom
doesn't want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please take it and look into it

"No!" Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. "Anything but that!
I don't want to see Denethor's charred hands!"

"So you've seen them before?" The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness - did he, in
fact, misjudge this man?

"No, but they told me . . . Anyone who looks into his palantir sees them!"

"Don't worry, Beregond." There was relief in Faramir's voice. "This is not
Denethor's palantir; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you."

"Really?" With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked
into it for quite some time, then put it back on the table with a sigh. "Forgive me. Prince,
but I don't see anything."

"You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of
Denethor's death; you can sleep peacefully."

"What?! What did you say?"

"You are not guilty of Denethor's death," the prince repeated. "Forgive me, but I had
to trick you: this is, indeed, his palantir. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it,
but only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw
nothing, therefore you're innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone's
powerful magic, most likely Elvish."

"Is this true?" Beregond whispered. "Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is
some other palantir . . ." (Please tell me it's not so!)

"Think about it - who would give me another palantirl They only gave this one back
to me because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past

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Denethor's hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don't even suspect
that people innocent of the crime can still use it."

"So why did you tell me that it was another one?"

"Well, you see . . . you're trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and
Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you'd convince yourself that you could see that
picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes ... But now, praise Eru, it's all over."

"It's all over," Beregond repeated hoarsely. He knelt and stared at the prince with such
doglike devotion that Faramir was embarrassed. "Then you will let me serve you, just like
in the old days?"

"Yes, I will, but please rise immediately ... Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of
Ithilien to you?"

"How else. Your Highness?!"

"If so, do I have the right, while remaining vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace
the personal guard imposed on me by the King?"

"Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally
under my command; I'm more of a quartermaster here."

"Yes, I've figured that out. Who are they, by the way - Dunedain?"

"The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants - those are all from the King's
Secret Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there're rumors -"
Beregond shot a glance at the door, "that they're living dead. Nor can I figure out who their
chief is."

"Well, well ... in any case we should get rid of those guys, the sooner the better. So,
Captain - will you take the risk by my side?"

"You have saved my honor; therefore, my life is yours with no reservations. But three
against forty ..."

"I think that we're way more than three." Beregond stared at the prince in amazement.
"About a week ago the men from one of the forest hamlets brought a cart of smoked deer
meat to the fort and got into an argument with the gate guards - those demanded that they
leave their bows outside the stockade, as is their procedure. There was a black-haired guy
there who made a big racket: how come noblemen can enter the Prince's residence armed,
but the merry men of the Blackbird Hamlet can't? Do you remember?"

"Yes, I recall something like that; so?"

"So that man was Baron Grager, lieutenant of the Ithilien Regiment and my resident
spy in Khand before the war. I'm inclined to think that he's not alone in that Blackbird
Hamlet. Your task is to establish contact with Grager, then we'll play it by ear. You and I
will only contact each other via a dead drop from now on - if you stand on the sixteenth step
of the spiral staircase in the northern wing, there is a small crack in the left wall at elbow
height, just right for a note. One can't be seen using this drop either from the top or the
bottom of the stairs, I've checked. Next, once you leave here, pretend to go on a drinking
binge for a couple of days, since I've asked you to try and contact Aragorn via the palantir,
and you beheld Denethor in it, of course ... Don't overdo it, though: the White officers
seem very perceptive."

That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement - arson. Some idiot fired
- no, not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who
refused to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone
burned down the pigeon coop belonging to a sullen single blacksmith who had moved here

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from Anfalas and apparently has kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons
beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The
local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood
upside down: knowing the mores of the Anfalasians, it was a safe bet that if the guilty party
were not jailed quickly, very soon they would be investigating a premeditated murder rather
than arson.

Faramir listened to this crazy story with an eyebrow raised high - he was very
surprised. More precisely, he really was surprised. There were only two possibilities: either
the foe had made his first major blunder, or, conversely, he has figured out the prince's
entire plan. Either way the Game has begun; it has begun earlier than he expected and not
how he expected, but now there was no turning back.

Chapter 23

Mountains of Shadow, Hotont pass
May 12, 3019

"There's your Ithilien." The mountain Troll put down the sack and pointed forward,
where the thick chaparral of low scrub oak piled up in the gorge below like dense clouds of
light-green smoke. "I can go no further, but you won't get lost, the path is well-trod. You'll
hit a stream in about an hour; the ford is a bit downstream. Looks scary, but it's fine to
cross. The thing there is not to be scared and step right into the breakers, that's where the
water is calmest. Just re-pack and go."

"Thank you, Matun!" Haladdin firmly shook the guide's shovel-wide hand. The Troll
resembled a bear in both looks and demeanor: a good-natured placid honey-eater capable of
turning, in a blink of an eye, into a deadly fighting machine fearsome even more in its
swiftness and cunning than in its monstrous strength. The bulbous nose, the unkempt red
beard, the expression of a bumpkin who just saw a carnival magician pull a gold coin out of
his ear - all these concealed an excellent warrior, both skilled and merciless. Looking at
him, Haladdin always recalled what he had heard once: peaceful family men make the best
fighters - when a man like this one, coming home from work one day, finds nothing but
charred bones in the ruins of his house.

He glanced once again at the snowy masses of the Mountains of Shadow looming over
them - not even Tzerlag would have been able to get their company past all those ice pools,
vertical mossy walls and vast rhododendron-covered slopes.

"When you get back to the base, please take care to remind Ivar to meet us in this
same place in July."

"No worries, buddy, the chief never forgets anything. We have an agreement, so we'll
be here through last week of July come hell or high water."

"Right. And if we're not here by August first, drink one to the rest of our souls."

In parting, Matun slapped Tzerlag' s shoulder so that he barely kept his feet: "Be well,
scout!" He and the Orocuen had become fast friends during the last few days. Of course, he
did not even nod at Tangorn; had he only leave to do what he wanted to this Gondorian dude
. . . Whatever, the officers know better. He had fought in Ivar the Drummer' s guerilla band
since the beginning of the occupation and knew full well that one is supposed to wait for a
scouting team's return at the rendezvous point for no more than three days, and here the
orders were for a full week! A mission of special importance, see? So the Gondorian dude
must not be here just for show, either.

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Yes, Haladdin thought, watching the rhythmically bobbing pack on the baron's back,
it all depends on Tangom now: whether he can protect us in Ithilien the way we've protected
him up to now. He's Prince Faramir's personal friend - that's great, but we have to get to
this wonderful prince first. Plus it may very well turn out that this Faramir is nothing but
Aragom's puppet, while the baron has rather peculiar relations with Minas Tirith authorities
- he may have already been declared an outlaw ... In other words, we may easily hang
together, either in the forest if we run into a Gondorian patrol, or on the wall of Emyn
Amen; the funniest thing is that in the forest the baron will hang with us, while in the fort
we'll hang with him. Yeah, the right company is key . . .

Such gloomy thoughts must have bothered the baron about ten days ago, when they
confirmed that the route to Ithilien through Morgul Vale and the Cirith Ungol pass had been
sealed shut by Elvish outposts, which meant that they had to seek help from the guerillas in
the Mountains of Shadow. The worst fate would have been to run into one of the smaller
bands that acknowledged no authority and were seeking nothing but revenge; no talk about
any mission would have helped, and the guerillas now killed their prisoners with no less
cruelty than their enemies did. Fortunately, using Sharya-Rana's information, Tzerlag
managed to locate in the Shara-Teg Gorge a well-regulated company reporting to the united
command of the Resistance. It was led by a commissioned officer. Lieutenant Ivar, a one-
armed veteran of the North Army. A native of the area, he had turned the gorge into an
unassailable fastness; among other things, he instituted a remarkable audible warning system
on all the observation posts, earning himself the nickname "Drummer."

The lieutenant had weighed Haladdin' s nazgiil ring fearlessly in his palm, nodded and
asked only one question: what could he do to assist sir Field Medic in his mission? Escort
their recon team to Ithilien? No problem. His opinion was that they should use the Hotont
pass; since it's considered to be impassable during this time of year, it's most likely
unguarded from the Ithilien side. Unfortunately, his best guide, Matun, was away on a
mission. Could they wait three or four days? No problem, then; this would let them rest and
fatten up a little, too - it'll be one arduous trek . . . Only when all three of them got back the
weapons of which they had been relieved by the forward guard did Tangom retum the
poison from Eloar's medkit he had borrowed from the doctor.

Haladdin had never been to this part of the country before, so now he observed the
daily life of the Shara-Teg Gorge with genuine interest. The mountain Trolls lived spartanly
but conducted themselves with truly princely dignity; to an outsider, only their hospitality
went beyond any measure reasonable to an outsider, sometimes acutely embarrassing
Haladdin. At least now he understood where the amazing ambience of the Barad-dur house
of his university classmate Kumai came from.

The Trolls have always lived in large tight-knit families, and since the only way to put
up a house big enough for thirty people on a steep slope is to build up, their abodes were
thick-walled stone towers twenty to thirty feet high. The stonemasonry experience
accumulated in the building of those miniature fortresses later made Troll expatriates into
the leading city builders of Mordor. Their other line was metallurgy. First they discovered
blacksmithing, making weapons cheap and therefore widely available; then they mastered
working with iron-nickel alloys (most of the local iron ores were naturally alloyed), and
since then the swords worn by every local male over the age of twelve were the best in
Middle Earth. Not surprisingly, the Trolls never knew any authority other than their own
elders: only a complete idiot will attack a TroUish tower and sacrifice half of the attacking

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force only to gain a dozen scrawny sheep as booty (or church tithe).

The Mordorian authorities understood this well and therefore did nothing but recruit
warriors here, which much flattered the mountain men. Later, though, when mining and
metal refining became their main occupations, the sale of those commodities was hit with a
stupendous tax, but the Trolls seemed to regard all profits as the One's gift - their
indifference to wealth and luxury was already proverbial, just like their stubbornness. This
also gave rise to a popular legend that the known Trolls were only a half of that people. The
other half (mistakenly called 'gnomes' or 'dwarves' in the Western countries, in confusion
with another mythical race - that of underground smiths) supposedly were wealth-crazy and
spent all their lives in secret underground tunnels, searching for gold and gems; they were
allegedly miserly, quarrelsome, treacherous - in other words, a mirror image of the real,
above-ground Trolls. Be that as it may, the fact remains: the TroUish community gave
Mordor many outstanding personalities, from generals and bladesmiths to scientists and
preachers, but not a single merchant of note.

When the Western allies implementing 'the final solution to the Mordorian problem'
have finished 'mopping up' the foothills and went to smoke out the Trolls from their Ash
and Shadow Mountains gorges, they quickly discovered that fighting mountain men was
rather different from collecting ears in Gorgoroth. The populations of the TroUish villages
have been greatly reduced - thousands of men had perished in the march on Esgaroth and on
the Pelennor Fields - but waging war in the confines of the mountains pretty much nullifies
numerical advantages. The mountain dwellers always had the option to give battle in the
tightest spots, where ten good warriors can hold back an entire army for hours while
catapults on the slopes above methodically pound the paralyzed enemy column. After thrice
burying large companies of invading enemies under man-made avalanches in their gorges,
the Trolls took the fight to the foothills, so that now the Easterlings and the Elves in those
parts did not dare stir out of a few well-fortified outposts at night. In the meantime, people
from the plains kept arriving at the mountain villages which were now guerilla bases - if the
end is near, better to meet it armed and not alone.

Chapter 24

There were many intriguing personalities among those arriving in the Shara-Teg
Gorge in those days. The doctor met one of them, a certain maestro Haddami, at Ivar's
headquarters, where the small parchment-faced Umbarian with inexpressibly sad eyes
worked as a clerk, from time to time offering the lieutenant highly interesting ideas for
reconnaissance operations. The maestro had been one of the country's leading crooks; at the
fall of Barad-diir he was serving a five-year sentence in the local prison for a grandiose scam
involving countersigned bank drafts. Being a financial ignoramus, Haladdin could not
appreciate the technical details, but judging by the fact that the defrauded merchants (the
heads of the three oldest trading houses of the capital) had expended a titanic effort to keep
the prosecution out of court and thus out of the public eye, the scheme must have been very
good indeed. With no opportunities to ply his trade in the ruined city, Haddami dug up his
secreted gold and headed south towards his historical motherland, but the twists of fate
which abound in war brought him to the Shara-Teg guerillas instead of to coveted Umbar.

The maestro was a fountainhead of assorted talents; having sorely missed learned
conversation, he willingly demonstrated those to Haladdin. For example, he could imitate
anyone's handwriting with astounding perfection, which was certainly very useful in his

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craft. Nor was this simple forgery of signatures; far from it. After studying a few pages of
the doctor's notes, Haddami wrote a meaningful text which Haladdin first thought to be his
own - I must have written and forgotten it; now he had found it and is playing head games
with me . . .

It was both simpler and more complex. Haddami turned out to be a genius

graphologist capable of putting together a precise psychological profile of an author from
the peculiarities of his style and handwriting and then morphing into him, so that the texts he
wrote in other people's names were authentic, in a way. After the maestro told Haladdin
everything he had learned about him from a few handwritten lines, the doctor experienced
consternation liberally spiced with fear - this was real magic, and not benign, either. For a
moment Haladdin was even sorely tempted to show the maestro some notes of Tangorn's,
although he clearly realized that this would have been much worse than simply snooping in
someone's private diary. No one has the right to know more about a person than he is
willing to tell, and both friendship and love die together with the person's right to privacy.

That was when he had the weird idea to submit Eloar's letter (from the dead Elf's
possessions) to Haddami' s analysis. He and the baron had gone through it with a fine-tooth
comb during their sojourn at Morgai, looking for any clues for entry into Lorien, but have
found nothing useful. Now Haladdin wanted, for reasons unclear to himself, to obtain the
Elf's psychological portrait while he had a chance.

The results surprised him beyond belief. From the fine curlicues of runes, Haddami
weaved a portrait of an exceptionally noble and likeable person, perhaps too dreamy, and
open to the point of vulnerability. To Haladdin' s objections the graphologist insisted that
his analysis of Eloar's other notes on topography and logistics only confirmed his
conclusions; there was no mistake.

Finally, Haladdin lost his patience. "If so, then your entire method isn't worth a damn,
maestro!" he stated, and then described to the startled expert what he had seen in Teshgol,
sparing him no grisly detail.

"Listen, doctor," said somewhat haggard Haddami after a pause, "I still insist - it
wasn't him there, in that Teshgol of yours ..."

"What do you mean, it wasn't him?! Perhaps he personally hadn't raped an eight-
year-old girl before slitting her throat, but he commanded the people who did!"

"No, no, Haladdin, that's not at all what I mean! See, this is a deep, unimaginably
deep - for us humans - split of personality. Imagine for a moment that you had to
participate in something like Teshgol - just had to. You have a mother whom you love
dearly; with the Elves it can't be otherwise, since children are very few and every member
of society is truly invaluable. I suspect that you'd do everything possible to spare her any
knowledge of this nightmare, and knowing the Elves' perceptiveness, lying or just staying
mute would not be enough. This would require you to really turn into another person. Two
totally different personalities in one creature - for internal and external consumption, so to
speak. Do you understand me?"

"To be honest, not really. Split personalities are not my field of expertise."

Strangely, apparently it was this conversation that pointed Haladdin towards the
solution to the main problem he has been toiling on, and this solution horrified him with its
crude simplicity. It had been sitting in plain view, and now it seemed to him that he had
been deliberately looking away, pretending not to see it . . . That evening the doctor got back
to their assigned tower late at night; their hosts were already in bed, but the fire was still

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burning in the hearth, and he sat by it motionless, staring fixedly at the spread of orange
embers. He did not even notice when the baron appeared by his side.

"Listen, Haladdin, you look very upset. Want a drink?"

"Yes ... I suppose I do."

The local vodka burned his mouth and rolled along his spine like a long spasm; he
wiped his eyes and looked for a place to spit. The drink did not make him feel better, but
did add a measure of detachment. Tangorn disappeared into the darkness and returned with
another stool.

"More?"

"No, thank you."

"Did something happen?"

"Yes. I've figured out how to plant our little gift on the Elves."
"So?"

"So now I'm pondering the eternal question of whether the ends justify the means."
"Hmm . . . can be either way, depending on the circumstances."

"Precisely. A mathematician would say that stated generally, the problem lacks a
solution. Therefore, instead of a clear directive the One in His infinite wisdom had decided
to supply us with conscience, which is a rather finicky and unreliable device."

"So what does your conscience say now. Doctor?" Tangorn looked at him with faintly
mocking interest.

"Conscience says quite clearly: no. Duty responds: you must. So it goes ... It must
be nice to live by the knightly ethic: do what you must and let the chips fall where they may,
right. Baron? Especially when someone had already let you know what you must do . . ."

"I'm afraid that no one can help you make this choice."

"Nor do I need any help. What's more," he turned away and, shivering, stretched his
hands towards the cooling embers, "I would like to free you from any obligation to
participate in our mission. Believe me, even if we win with my plan, it will not be a victory
to be proud of."

"Really?" Tangorn' s face became stony, and his gaze suddenly weighed like an
avalanche. "So your plan is of such a quality that to take part in it is a greater dishonor than
abandoning a friend in need - and so far I have considered you to be one? Doctor, I greatly
appreciate your concern for my conscience, but perhaps you'll allow me to make this
judgment myself?"

"As you wish," Haladdin shrugged indifferently. "You can listen first and decline
later. It's a fairly complicated scheme and we'll have to start from afar ... What do you
think is Aragom's relationship with the Elves?"

"Aragom and the Elves? You mean now, after they've installed him on the throne of
Gondor?"

"Of course. I think you have mentioned knowing Eastern mythology pretty well;
perhaps you remember the tale of the Dwarves' Chain?"
"I have to confess to forgetting it."

"Well, it's a very edifying story. A long, long time ago the gods were trying to subdue
Hahti, the hungry demon of Hell, who could' ve consumed the whole World. Twice they
restrained him with a chain forged by the divine Blacksmith - first of steel, then of mithril -
and both times Hahti tore it like a thread. So when the gods were down to their third and
final attempt, they had to abase themselves by turning to the Dwarves for help. Those came

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through with a really unbreakable chain made from fishes' voice and the sound of cats' steps

95

"Fishes' voice and the sound of cats' steps?"

"Yes. That's why neither of those are found in the World - all used up in that chain.
Actually, it seems to me that some other things got used up as well, such as gratitude of
kings . . . Speaking of which, how do you think the gods paid the Dwarves?"

"By liquidating them, I suppose; how else?"

"Exactly! Actually, they only intended to liquidate them, but the Dwarves were to be
reckoned with, too . . . but that's a different story. Back to Aragom and the Elves ..."

His tale was long and detailed, as he was also testing his logic. Afterwards, a silence
fell, disturbed only by the howling wind outside the tower.

"You're a scary man, Haladdin; who would' ve thought it?" Tangom said thoughtfully,
looking at the doctor with a new interest and - yes, respect. "The job we have undertaken
brooks no timidity, but if we are, indeed, to win in this manner ... In other words, I doubt
that I will ever want to reminisce about it with you over a goblet of good wine."

"If we are to win in this manner," Haladdin echoed, "I don't think that I will ever want
to look at myself in the mirror." (In any event, he added to himself, I will never dare look
Sonya in the eye.)

"Actually," the baron smirked, "allow me to take you back to earth: this discussion
rather resembles dividing spoils before the battle. First you win this fight, then do your
soul-searching. So far we see a light at the end of the tunnel, nothing more. I don't think
that our chances of survival are any better than one in five, so it's an honest game, in a
way."

"Our chances? So you're staying?"

"What else can I do? Why, do you think that you can pull this off without me? For
example, how did you plan to approach Faramir? Your whole scheme will end before it
begins without his participation, albeit passive. All right . . . Here's what I think: this lure of
yours has to be dropped nowhere else but Umbar. I will undertake that part of the operation,
you and Tzerlag would only burden me there. Let's go to sleep now; I'll consider the details
tomorrow."

However, the next day they had other business to attend to: the long-awaited guide
finally turned up, and off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but
the pass still had not opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the
sleeping bags made from bighorn sheep skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a
half in an igloo that Matun fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick fim, they barely
managed to dig themselves out. In Haladdin' s memory the whole trek coagulated into one
thick glutinous nightmare. Oxygen deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all
around him; after every move all he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen
blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling. It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best
way to go. The only time he broke out of that semiconsciousness was when a huge furry
figure appeared out of nowhere on another side of a gorge about half a mile from where they
were - a cross between an ape and a rearing bear. The creature moved awkwardly but
preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the boulders at the bottom of the gorge without
paying any attention to them. That was the first time he had ever seen a scared Troll,
something he thought impossible. "Matun, what was that?" The guide only waved a hand,
as if warding against the Enemy: it's gone, and that's good enough ... So now they are

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walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying the birdsongs, while Matun is
going back, alone, through all those screes and fim fields.

That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a
stockade around a couple of unfinished log houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their
bows and the leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and come closer
slowly with their hands up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was
heading to Prince Faramir himself. The men traded glances and inquired whether the
newcomer had come from the Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of
the builders, who was sitting at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and finally laughed
heartily:

"Well, well. Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!"

"Guys!!" yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. "May my eyes never see if it
ain't Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn't recognize you; you look, you know . . . Hey,
now we're all back together, we'll do that White Company like . . ." and, elated, he aimed an
expressive obscene gesture towards distant Emyn Amen.

Chapter 25

Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet

May 14, 3019

"So you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: 'merry men of the Blackbird
Hamlet?'"

"What else could I do - wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze over? Both the Prince and
the girl can only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can't exactly talk with
those guys around ..."

The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the
speaker's face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a mashtang bandit preying on the
caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally at ease in Khand
caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth dervishes, and
in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago who taught the
newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of intelligence work
and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without knowing which one
will always remain a greengo, a permanent target of veiled insults large and small from
every Southerner, from a street urchin to a palace courtier.

The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine,
caught Tangorn' s barely discernible 'no' gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The
emotional encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.

"How quickly did you get in touch?"

"Nine days. The Whites ought to have forgotten that stupid episode already. The girl
went hunting once - it's routine now - saw a shepherd boy with his flock on a distant
pasture and lost her escort, very professionally, for not more than ten minutes."

"A shepherd boy, eh? Did she give him a gold coin wrapped in a note?"

"Nope - took a splinter out of his foot and told him a story of how she and her brother,
when they were kids, had to defend a herd against steppe wolves . . . Listen, is it true that
they do everything themselves in the North?"

"Yes. Over there even crown princes tend horses in childhood, and princesses work in
the kitchens. So what about the boy?"

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"She simply asked him to help in such a way that no one else finds out. And - the
word of a professional - were anything to happen, the boy would let himself be cut to
ribbons rather than give anything away ... Anyway, he found Blackbird Hamlet and
brought an oral message: next Friday Captain Beregond will be in the Red Deer tavern in the
Settlement, waiting for a drunk man who will slap his shoulder and ask whether he is the
one who commanded the archers of Morthond on the Pelennor Fields."

"What?! Beregond?!"

"Yes, if you can imagine that. We were no less surprised, believe me. You have to
agree, though, that Aragom's people aren't likely to bait a trap with someone so noticeable,
so the Prince is doing everything right."

"You must all be crazy here!" Tangom spread his hands. "How can you trust a man
who first killed his suzerain and a month later is betraying his new lords?"

"Quite the contrary. First, he's innocent of Denethor's death, we know that for sure

"For sure? How? You looked into chicken entrails?"

"Yes, we did, but into a palantir rather than anyone's entrails. Long story short -
Faramir fully trusts him now, and the Prince, as you know, is a good judge of people and not
given to sappy sentimentality."

Tangorn leaned forward and even whistled in amazement. "Wait! Do you mean to
say that Denethor's palantir is in Emyn Arnen?"

"Yep. Those folks in Minas Tirith have decided that it's broken. All they could see in
it was the murdered King's ghost, so when Faramir asked for it as a memento, they were
only too glad to get rid of it."

"All right ..."

The baron stole an involuntary glance at the door to the next room, where Haladdin
and Tzerlag were bedding down for the night. The situation was changing rapidly; they
were inordinately lucky recently, he thought fleetingly, not a good sign . . . Grager followed
his glance and nodded in the same direction:

"Those two. Are they really looking for Faramir?"

"Yes. They can be trusted, since our interests are fully aligned, at least for now."

"Well, well ... A diplomatic mission?"

"Something like that. Forgive me, but I'm honor-bound ..."

The chief of the Ithilienians contemplated this for some time, and then grumbled: "All
right. You deal with them yourself, I'm busy enough as it is. I'm gonna take them out from
underfoot to the most remote base, at Otter Creek, for the time being, and then we'll see."

"By the way, why did you give away precisely this base, at Blackbird Hamlet?"

"Because you can't approach it stealthily, so we can always beat it. Besides, we have
only a few guys here; it's more of an observation post than a base."

"How many people do we have?"

"You're number fifty-two."

"And they? ..."

"Forty."

"Can't storm the fort, then."

"Forget a direct assault," Grager waved off the notion. "Whatever else, they'll have
enough time to kill the Prince in any event. Moreover, Faramir categorically demands that
his freedom be attained with absolutely no bloodshed, so that no one dare accuse him of

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violating his vassal's oath. No, we have another plan - an escape from Emyn Amen; and
when the Prince of Ithilien is under our protection, that's when we can change our tune and
tell the Whites to get lost."

"Do you have a concrete plan?"

"Brother, you offend me - it's almost fully implemented already! You see, Eowyn
was our biggest problem: they're only let outside separately, and the Prince won't leave
without her, of course. So we had to solve this puzzle: where can we arrange for both the
Prince and the Princess to be, first, together, second, with no eyes on them, third, outside the
fort?"

"Hmm . . . the bedchamber comes to mind immediately, if not for the third condition."
"You're almost right. It's the bathhouse."
"Wow!" Tangom guffawed. "A tunnel?"

"Of course. The bathhouse is within the stockade, but away from the main building.
We're digging from a nearby mill, about two hundred yards straight, quite a bit of work.

The biggest problem with tunnels, as you know, is what to do with all the dirt. With the mill
we're getting it out in sacks dusted with flour, it's all very natural-looking. The danger is
that the sentries might start counting the sacks from sheer boredom, and figure out that a lot
more flour is going out than grain is coming in. So we couldn't dig as fast as we could, but
looks like we'll be done this week."

"And the White Company has no suspicions?"

"Beregond swears that they don't. Of course, they won't tell him anything of the sort,
but he'd see some signs of an alarm."

"Do they have informants in the Settlement and the hamlets?"

"In the Settlement for sure, but not in the hamlets, I don't think. See, the White
Company has a real communication problem outside the fort. The locals avoid talking to
them (there're all sorts of crazy rumors about them, including that they're living dead),
which helps us a lot: every settler contact with the Whites stands out. They've wised up
now and switched to dead drops, but before that they were burning their agents every day."

"Is the tavern keeper working for them?"

"Looks that way. Makes our lives very difficult."

"What about the merchants who travel to Gondor?"

"One. The other is my man. I've been waiting for them to try and recruit him, then
we'd have their communication channel, but no luck so far."
"You're just watching them for now?"

"Not just watching. Now that we're counting down the days, I've decided to cut their
Unk to Minas Tirith - make them get a little busy. That'll distract them some from both the
miller and our hamlets."

"Speaking of a link - anyone in the Settlement keep pigeons?"

Grager grinned. "One did, but his coop burned down. So it goes . . ."

"Wasn't that too bold? They must've been furious."

"Sure they were! But, like I told you, it's the final countdown, speed matters.
Besides, two sergeants investigated the arson, if you can imagine that, so now we know
who's in charge of counter-intelligence there ... The only thing is," the former resident spy
said thoughtfully, staring at the lamp, "I'm really bothered by how easily I'm figuring out
everything they do. Just put myself in their place: how would I build a network in such a
village? But this simply means that once they find out that we exist - which they will, and

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soon - they'll figure my moves out equally easily. So what we must do is move first ...
Aha!" His raised finger froze in mid-air. "Sounds like company ! Looks like the boys from
the fort have finally risked direct contact with Minas Tirith - I've been waiting for this for
three days!"

The cart rolled down the highway in quickly gathering dusk, and its driver (the owner
of the local grocery) kept getting chills behind the collar and in his sleeves. He had almost
made it through the Owl Hollow - the most dismal stretch of the route between the
Settlement and Osgiliath - when four shadows materialized noiselessly out of the
impenetrably dark chestnut bushes on both sides of the road. The merchant knew the rules
well and surrendered his purse with its dozen silver coins meant to purchase soap and spices
to the robbers without complaint. However, the robbers didn't evince much interest in the
money, telling the prisoner to disrobe; this was against the rules, but the blade against his
chin discouraged any discussion. The grocer was really scared - cold-sweat scared - only
when the leader, after poking the soles of his boots with a dagger, carefully felt his jacket,
grunted in satisfaction and cut open one of the stitches. From there he deftly extracted a
small square of fine silk, covered with runes barely visible in the dark.

The merchant was an amateur, so when the robbers threw a rope over a sturdy branch,
he committed a gaffe of monumental proportions by claiming to be a King's man. What did
he expect to accomplish? The night killers only traded puzzled looks: their experience
suggested that the King's men were just as mortal as all others, provided they were hanged
properly. The one who was fashioning the noose observed drily that espionage was not a
game of darts at the Red Deer with only a couple of beers at stake. Strictly speaking, he
further observed while painstakingly tying a 'pirate's knot' (in full view, so that the victim
could observe the menacing preparations), the merchant was lucky. A failed spy usually
wouldn't rate such a quick and relatively painless death; it's his good fortune that he's only
a courier and knows nothing about the rest of the organization anyway ... At that, the
unfortunate grocer failed to hold either his bodily wastes or whatever he knew; as Grager's
men supposed, he knew quite a lot.

The 'robbers' traded satisfied glances: they have done their job flawlessly. The leader
led a horse out from behind a bush, gave a couple of curt orders and galloped away:
Blackbird Hamlet has been waiting for this bit of silk for a long time. One of the others
gave the quavering prisoner a look that was far from admiring and pushed his discarded
clothing towards him with his boot:

"Over there, behind the trees, is a little stream. Go clean yourself up and get dressed -
you're coming with us. I'm sure you can imagine what's gonna happen if your White
Company buddies catch up with you."

The cipher used to encode the dispatch was surprisingly simple. Upon discovering
seven instances of the rare N rune in a relatively short message, Tangorn and Grager
understood immediately that they were dealing with a so-called direct substitution
(nicknamed 'simple gibberish'), where one rune is always replaced with only one other
throughout the text. Typically, a predetermined number is added to the number of all fifty-
eight runes constituting the Certhas Daeron; for example, if the step is ten, ^ (number 11)
replaces P (number 1), ^ (number 7) replaces \ (number 55), and so on. This cipher is so
primitive that in the South it is used, at most, to encode secret love letters. Having figured
out the step on the second try - fourteen, the date of the message - Grager cursed

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elaborately, reckoning it an attempt at disinformation.

The message was anything but disinformation, though. In it, one Cheetah, captain of
His Majesty's Secret Guard, was informing his 'colleague Grager' that their game had
reached an apparent impasse. Certainly Grager could roll up Cheetah's intelligence network
outside the fort and greatly impede communications with Minas Tirith; however, this would
not advance his ultimate goal even a little bit. Would it not make sense for the two of them
to meet, either in Emyn Arnen (with safe conduct guarantees) or in one of the hamlets of the
Baron's choosing?

Chapter 26

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
Night of May 14, 3019

"Listen, so you say that Princess AUandale didn't really exist, that this Alrufin
dreamed her up ..." Eowyn was sitting in the armchair with her feet up, her slender fingers
intertwined over one knee, and a funny frown on her face. The prince smiled and, perching
on the arm, tried and failed to smooth out the frown with his lips.

"No, Far, wait, I do mean it. She's alive, you see - really alive! When she dies to
save her beloved, I want to cry, as if I had lost a friend for real . . . See, those sagas about
ancient heroes are also great, but they're different somehow, very different. All those Gil-
galads and Isildurs, they're like ... like stone statues, you know? One can worship them
and that's it, but the Princess - she's weak, she's warm, you can love her ... Am I making
sense?"

"Plenty, honey. I think that Alrufin would have loved to hear you say this."

"AUandale must've lived in the beginning of the Third Age. No one but a few
chroniclers even knows the names of the konungs who ruled Rohan back then; so who's
more real - they, or this girl? Hadn't Alrufin - scary to say! - exceeded the might of the
Valar?"

"Yes, in a way he has."

"You know, I just thought . . . imagine that someone as mighty as Alrufin writes a
book about the two of us - this can happen, right? Then which Eowyn will be the real one -
I or the other?"

Faramir smiled. "I remember when you asked to explain, on a 'stupid broad level,'
what philosophy is. Well, your musings are just that - philosophy, albeit a tad naive. You
see, lots of people have thought about these things, and not all of the answers they've come
up with are worthless stupidity. For example . . . Yes, come in!" he called out to a knock on
the door, and glanced at Eowyn in puzzlement: it's night already, who could that be?

The man who entered wore a sergeant's black parade uniform of the Gondorian
Guards of the Citadel (this has always intrigued the prince: White Company wearing black
uniforms), and Faramir felt trepidation: they must have made some serious mistake. He told
Eowyn to go into the next room, but the guest politely requested that she stay: what they
were about to discuss directly involved Her Highness, too.

"First, allow me to introduce myself. Prince, albeit a little late. I don't have a name,
but you can call me Cheetah. I'm actually a captain of the Secret Guard, rather than a
sergeant - here's my badge - and I'm in charge of counter-intelligence here. A few minutes
ago I have arrested the Commandant of Emyn Amen on charges of conspiracy and treason.
However, it's possible that Beregond had merely followed your orders without thinking

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about them too much, which would lessen his guilt. This is what 1 would like to establish."

"Could you please express yourself clearer, Captain?" Not a muscle twitched in
Faramir's face when he fearlessly met Cheetah's gaze - empty and terrifying, like that of all
White Company officers; whereas if one discounted the matter of the eyes, the captain's face
was quite likeable - manly and a little sad.

"Prince, it appears to me that you totally misunderstand the nature of my
responsibilities. On the one hand, I must protect your life at all costs - I repeat, at all costs.
Not because I like you, but because such are my King's orders. Rumor will ascribe any
misfortune that befalls you squarely to His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone
else's bills? On the other hand, I must avert any attempt to persuade you to break your
vassal's oath. Imagine that some band of fools attacks the fort and 'frees' you in order to
turn you into the banner of Restoration. Should even one of the King's men die when that
happens - and some will most certainly die - His Majesty would be unable to ignore such an
event for all his wishing otherwise. The Royal Army will enter Ithilien, which will most
likely plunge the Reunited Kingdom into a bloody civil war. So please consider my task
here to be guarding you from possible folly."

Strangely, something in Cheetah's manner of speaking (the tone? No, more likely
phrasing . . .) made Faramir feel that he was once again talking to Aragom.

"I greatly appreciate your concern. Captain, but I fail to see what this has to do with
Beregond's arrest."

"You see, some time ago at the Red Deer he met a tall slender man with a long scar on
his left temple and one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. Perhaps you know who I
mean? That's a distinctive look."

"Frankly, no, I can't remember," the prince smiled, trying to keep the smile straight -
he had reasons to wince. "Perhaps it's easier to ask Beregond himself?"

"Oh, Beregond will have to answer a whole host of questions. However, Prince, your
forgetfulness is truly surprising. I can understand that Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien
Regiment, may not remember all his soldiers, but shouldn't he remember the officers and
sergeants? I repeat - this man has a distinctive look."

"What does the Ithilien Regiment have to do with this?"

"What do you mean: 'what'? You see, after the war many of those who had fought in
the ranks of that remarkable outfit didn't come home to Gondor. Especially noteworthy is

the total absence of returned officers and sergeants, about fifty in all. Some must have been
killed in the war, but surely not all! Where do you think they all could' ve gone. Prince -
perhaps here, to Ithilien?"

"Perhaps," the prince shrugged indifferently. "But I have no idea."

"Exactly, Prince, exactly - you have no idea! Please note that it'd be completely
normal and natural for those people to remain in Ithilien, where they had started their service
and where their beloved Captain is now Prince; it's no secret that you were truly beloved in
that regiment. But somehow not one of them showed up in Emyn Amen to officially
introduce himself and apply to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond
unnatural, but, rather, exceedingly suspicious! It's logical to suppose that the regiment is
still a well-regulated fighting unit that has gone underground, and now these people are
hatching plans for your 'liberation'. I think we've already established what would happen
then."

"Your inferences are very interesting. Captain, and have their own logic, but if they

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are the only proof of Beregond's treason that you have ..."

"Please, Prince," Cheetah frowned, "we're not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns
me now is the actual degree of the guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than legal
niceties. Immediately a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only ever
served in Minas Tirith with the Guards of the Citadel, contact Sergeant Runcorn, the free
shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien's forests? Someone had to introduce them,
even if indirectly, and you're the prime suspect. Prince ... So which was it: did Beregond
act on his own or did he, as seems more likely, carry out your orders?"

It's over, Faramir realized. Why did they have to send Runcorn to make contact? He
is indeed easy to identify from a description. Sergeants' descriptions - these guys are really
digging deep . . . The Red Deer, too, is apparently covered better than I thought. We lost
completely, but the price we'll pay will be different: I'll go on being an honored prisoner,
while the captain will die a tortuous death. The most horrible thing is that I really can do
nothing for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the indelible
knowledge of my evil. It's a stupid illusion that there can be any negotiations with the
victorious enemy. One can gain nothing in such negotiations, either for himself or others;
they're always conducted under the principle of 'what I have is mine and what's yours is
also mine.' Which is why there's an ironclad rule of clandestine warfare: in all
circumstances, either be silent or deny everything, up to and including your own existence.
Should I admit any role in these contacts, I will not save Beregond and only speed up the
destruction of Grager and his men . . .

All of these thoughts went through the prince's mind like a whirlwind, and then he
raised his gaze to meet Cheetah's and said firmly: "I have not the slightest idea of the
Commandant's contacts with the members of the Ithilien Regiment, had those indeed taken
place. You very well know that we have not exchanged more than a dozen words during
this time; after all, this man killed my father."

"In other words," the counter-spy summed up drily, "you do not wish to spare your
man the torture, if not death?"

He knew what he was risking, Faramir thought, and responded: "If, indeed, there is
treason involved - of which you have not yet convinced me! - then Captain Beregond must
be punished severely." Then, choosing his words carefully, he concluded: "As for myself, I
am ready to swear by the thrones of the Valar that I have never considered breaking my
word, nor will ever consider doing so: duties to the suzerain are sacrosanct."

"All right," Cheetah drawled thoughtfully. "What about you, Eowyn? Are you ready
to betray for the sake of your goal and toss your man to the wolves? Actually," he sneered,
"what am I saying here? So a mere officer, a commoner, will go to the rack; big deal for
someone of royal blood, who in any event is safe!"

An ability to control her facial expressions was not one of Eowyn' s many fine
qualities - she paled and looked helplessly at Faramir. Cheetah had inerringly zeroed in on
the one chink in their armor: the girl was physically incapable of pretending indifference
when a friend was in danger. Faramir tried to warn her with a look, but it was too late.

"Now listen to me, both of you! I'm not interested in confessions - I'm a counter-spy,
not a judge. All I need is information about the locations of the Ithilien Regiment fighters. I
do not intend to kill these people; I really am trying to prevent bloodshed. You'll have to
take my word for it, since you've lost and have no other options. I will get this information
out of you whatever the cost. Certainly no one can interrogate in the third degree the sister

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of the King of Rohan, but you can be sure that I will make her watch the torture of
Beregond, whom you betrayed, from the beginning to the bitter end, by the silence of
Mandos!"

In the meantime the prince was absent-mindedly playing with a quill atop an
incomplete manuscript, as if not noticing that his left elbow had nudged an unfinished goblet
of wine to the very edge of the table. In another moment the cup will crash to the floor,
Cheetah will involuntarily glance at it - then he'll vault over the table and go for the
counter-spy's throat, and devil may care . . . Suddenly the door opened without a knock and
a White Company lieutenant strode swiftly into the room; two soldiers appeared in the
gloom just beyond the threshold. Late again, Faramir thought with a sense of doom, but the
lieutenant paid him no heed, instead whispering something apparently very surprising into
Cheetah's ear. "We'll continue our conversation in ten minutes or so. Prince," the captain
said over his shoulder, heading to the door. The lock clanged, the sound of marching boots
rapidly faded into the distance, and quiet fell - a kind of uneasy, confused quiet, as though it
realized its fleeting quality.

"What're you looking for?" She was surprisingly calm, even serene.

"Anything that can serve as a weapon."

"Yes, that's good. For me, too, I hope?"

"See, baby, I got you into this and couldn't save . . ."

"Nonsense, you did everything right. Far; it's just that luck was on their side this

time."

"Shall we say goodbye?"

"Yes, let's. Whatever happens, we've had this month. You know, it must be Valar
envy: we've had too much happiness . . ."

"Are you ready, love?" Now, after those few seconds, he was a totally different man.
"Yes. What should I do?'

"Look carefully. The door opens inward, the doorposts are inside, too ..."

Chapter 27

Meanwhile, Cheetah was leaning on the battlement over the gates, his gaze fixed on
Grager's hard hawk-like face, which he had previously known only from descriptions. The
spot in front of the gates was lit by a dozen torches held aloft by riders in Ithilien
Regiment's camouflage cloaks from the Baron's entourage. The talks proceeded with great
difficulty, if at all; the 'High Contracting Parties' agreed on the need to avoid bloodshed and
naught else. With good reason, neither trusted the other worth a damn ("Suppose I simply
capture you right now, Baron, thus solving all my problems?" "You'll have to open the
gates to do that, Captain. Go ahead - open them, and we'll see whose archers are better."),
and neither budged an inch from their preconditions. Grager demanded that the Ithilienians
be let inside the fort to stand guard over Faramir. Cheetah wanted to know the locations of
their forest strongholds ("Do you think I'm an idiot. Captain?" "Well, you're the one
suggesting that I voluntarily let armed opponents inside the fort.") After about fifteen
minutes of this back-and-forth they finally agreed that the White Company would request
orders from Minas Tirith while the Ithilienians would let the courier through, and adjourned
the talks.

Someone else might have been fooled by this show, but not Cheetah. The moment he

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went up the wall and assessed the situation, he turned to the accompanying lieutenant and
gave a murmured order: "Raise a quiet alarm. All available men to the courtyard. Everyone
freeze and watch for an intruder; any minute now someone from the Ithilien Regiment will
scale the wall, most likely in the rear, under the cover of all the talk-talk. Capture him alive
- 1 will personally take apart whoever produces a corpse."

He was absolutely correct but for a couple of small details. The infiltrator chose the
front rather than the back wall. Soundlessly he tossed a tiny grapple on a length of
weightless elvenrope over the shoddy stockade (less than a dozen yards from the group at
the gates, where the dark pushed away by their torches seemed thickest by contrast), flew up
like a spider on a strand, and then slid into the courtyard like a breath of night breeze right
under the noses of sentries on the wall, who kept their attention and arrows trained on
Grager's well-Ut men and expected no such impudence. Another small detail that Cheetah
got wrong was that the man who was now trying to free the prince (an impromptu attempt
conceived less than an hour ago of hopelessness and desperation) was not of the Ithilien
Regiment, but of the Cirith Ungol Rangers.

It rates a mention that Sergeant Tzerlag's unit identification had caused a greatly
animated discussion at Blackbird Hamlet, both as to essence and as to appearances. "My
friend, are you totally nuts?" was Grager's first reaction to Tangom's sudden suggestion to
use the 'visiting Mordorian professional' rather than an Ithilien Ranger to infiltrate Emyn
Amen. "An Ore is an Ore! To trust the Prince's life to one ... Sure, it's tempting that he
knows the fort layout - from when they were stationed here, right? - and can pick locks.
But dammit. Baron - to let an armed Mordorian into the Prince's bedchamber with your
own hands?" "I'm willing to trust my own life to these two guys," Tangom explained
patiently. "I can't tell you about their mission, but please believe me: it so happens that
we're fighting the same enemy on the same team, at least for now, and they're as interested
as we are in getting Faramir out from under the White Company."

Be that as it may, working in intelligence had long ago taught Grager that a temporary
alignment of interests can sometimes produce a totally unbelievable alliance and that
oftentimes one can trust a former enemy more than certain friends. In the end he assumed
all responsibility, formally enlisted Tzerlag into the Ithilien Regiment 'for the duration of
the raid on Emyn Amen' and handed the Orocuen the appropriate paperwork in case he got
caught by the Whites. The sergeant only snorted - a captured Ore will get short shrift in any
case; better to hang as a Mordorian insurgent than a Gondorian conspirator - but Haladdin
told him to mind his own business.

"... And remember. Sergeant: no killing when taking down sentries and such! Treat
this as a war game."

"Very nice! Do those guys understand it's a war game?"

"I hope so."

"Understood. I guess they'll hang me with a pretend rope if it comes to that . . ."

They say that there are werewolves-nw j^o^e in the countries of the Far East - a
fearsome clan of super-spies and super-assassins capable of mutating into animals internally,
while keeping their human appearance. Tuming into a gecko, a nin 'yokve can climb a
smooth wall against all laws of physics, slither into any crack after turning into a snake, and
should the guards catch up with him, he turns into a bat and flies away. Tzerlag had never
had any nin 'yokve skills (despite Tangom's possible suspicions), but the recon squad leader
of the Cirith Ungol Rangers knew quite a few tricks involving no magic.

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In any event, by the time the White Company soldiers have been roused and took their
positions in the courtyard, he had already scaled one of the outside galleries and was now
working on its lock, trading the grapple for other tools. The sergeant did not have the skills
of a real burglar, but he did know a few things about metalworking, and as he remembered
from last year, any lock in Emyn Amen could be opened with a pocketknife and a couple of
pieces of wire. Several minutes later he was gliding noiselessly through the dark and empty
corridors (all the Whites are outside - very convenient!); the Orocuen had admirable visual
memory and spatial orientation skills, but he saw that finding the Prince's bedchamber in
this three-dimensional maze was not going to be easy.

Freezing before every comer, zooming through open spaces like a lightning, taking
stairs sideways lest a step creak when trod in the middle, Tzerlag had covered about a third
of the way when his inner sentry, which was the only reason he had survived those years,
moved its icy hand along his spine: bewarel He immediately flattened against the wall and
slowly moved sideways toward a bend in the corridor about a dozen yards ahead. He could
see no one behind him, but the feeling of danger was still close and very clear; when the
sergeant had made it past the helpful tum, he was sweating profusely. He crouched and
carefully extended a pocket mirror past the corner, almost at floor level - the corridor was
still empty. He waited for a few minutes with no changes, and then he felt clearly: the
danger receded, he could not feel it any more. This did not calm him at all; he moved
forward even more cautiously and ready for the worst.

When Cheetah caught a fast-moving shadow in the comer of his eye, he plastered
himself against the wall in exactly the same manner and cursed inwardly: they missed the
intruder after all, the damned drones! The captain's position was not that great: only three
sentries to cover the entire huge building - one warding Faramir and Eowyn, another by
Beregond, the third at the entrance to the cellar. Go get help from outside? The intmder
might let the prince out in the meantime, and the two of them will screw things up royally.
Sound an alarm? No good: the intmder will vanish into this cursed maze and get ready for
battle, so the only way to take him would be with quite a few holes in him, which is highly
undesirable. Yes, looks like the only real option is to follow the guest and take him down
personally, hand-to-hand, something Cheetah knew very well indeed.

Once he made the decision. Cheetah suddenly felt the msh of long-forgotten joyous
excitement, for what is more exquisite fun than hunting an armed man? He froze in
amazement, listening to himself: yes, there was no doubt - he was feeling an emotion! So
this process has a certain order to it, then. He had his memory back first (although he still
could not remember what happened to him before he found himself in the second rank of the
grey phalanx marching across the Pelennor Fields), then he regained the ability to make his
own decisions, then he could once again feel pain and weariness, and now the emotions
were back. I wonder if I will be able to feel fear, too? At this rate I might become human
again, he chuckled to himself. All right, I have work to do.

Naturally, he did not go into the corridor the intmder had taken; quite possibly he had
seen him, too, and was now waiting behind the next corner. Much better to make use of
being the master here and being able to move much faster than the foe: no need to freeze and
listen by every comer. I can go around and still be there first. Where's there? If the guest is
moving towards Faramir' s room (where else?), then I should meet him at the Two Stairs
Landing - he can't avoid it, and I will have at least three minutes to prepare.

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As he expected, the counter-intelligence chief was the first at the landing; he took off
his cloak and started painstakingly setting up the trap. I must morph into my quarry; so - if
he's not a leftie, he'll be moving along the left wall. Would I look at the spiral staircase that
will suddenly appear on the right? Yes, definitely. Then I will be with my back to this
niche? Precisely. What a beautiful niche - even up close it's hard to believe that it can hold
anything bigger than a broom. Here, let' s extinguish this lamp, so it' s more in the shadow
... wonderful, all set, that's where I'll stand. Now: I'm here, he's there, two yards off and
facing away. Sword hilt to the back of the head? Damn, don't feel like it . . . not sure why,
but intuition says no, gotta listen to intuition in this business. Hands, then - a chokehold?
Right hand grabs the hair at the nape, pull down to raise the chin, a simultaneous kick to the
knee, left arm to the exposed throat. Reliable, but possibly lethal, and corpses don't talk
much. Hadaka-jime, then, but for that it's preferable that he expose his throat himself - say,
by looking up. How can we make him look up? Think, Cheetah, think . . .

When Tzerlag reached the dim weirdly shaped widening of the corridor at the end of
which he could discern stairs going left, the premonition of danger returned with such force
that he almost became dizzy: the unknown foe was somewhere very close. He watched and
listened for minute - nothing; moved forward slowly, step by tiny step, noiselessly (damn,
maybe to hell with their orders, get out the scimitar?) and froze: a large opening appeared on
the right, with a spiral staircase through it, and there was definitely something behind those
stairs. He glided by the left wall, his eyes on the opening - who the hell's there? - and
stopped, almost laughing out loud. Whew! It's just a sword, leaned against the wall behind
the stairs by one of the Whites. A strange place to keep a personal weapon, though. Maybe
it's not leaned, actually - judging by the angle, it might' ve slipped down from upstairs. By
the way, what's that there on the top step? . . .

Tzerlag' s inner sentry yelled: behind youl only a split second before the foe's hands
locked around his neck. The sergeant only had time to flex his neck muscles. Moving
precisely, like in training. Cheetah grabbed his throat with the crook of the right elbow, then
the counter-spy's right hand locked on his left bleep, while the left pushed against the back
of his neck, crushing throat cartilage and pinching the carotid artery. Hadaka-jime -
unbreakable stranglehold. Game over.

Chapter 28

Banal though it sounds, everything has its price. The price of a warrior is the amount
of time and money (which are really the same thing) it takes to train, arm, and equip another
one to replace him. It makes no sense to increase the cost of training beyond a certain
threshold (peculiar to every epoch) where a basic competency is achieved, since total
imperviousness is anyway impossible. What good does it do to spend the effort to turn a
regular infantryman into a first-class fencer when this will not save him from a crossbow
bolt or, worse, a bout of wasting diarrhea?

For example, take hand-to-hand combat. It is a very useful skill, but attaining
perfection takes years of constant training, whereas a soldier, to put it mildly, has plenty of
other responsibilities. There are several options here; the Mordorian army approach was to
teach only about a dozen techniques, but to drill those twelve combinations of movements
almost down to the level of kneejerk reflex. Of course, it is impossible to foresee all
eventualities, but the method for breaking a rear stranglehold is definitely among the said

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dozen techniques.

Step one! - a swift heel-tapping move back; stomp heel into the top of the opponent's
foot, crushing its bird-thin bones encased in myriads of nerve endings. Step two! - bend the
knees, with a slight turn of thighs slide out of the grip suddenly weakened by horrible pain,
down and a tad to the right, until there is room to drive the left elbow into his groin. Once
the foe's hands drop to his hammered genitals, several options are available; for example,
Tzerlag's step-three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent's ears: burst
eardrums and a guaranteed knock-out. This ain't no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern
martial arts, where the hieroglyphs of the positions are but notation marks for the music of
the Higher Spheres; no, this is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple
and to the point.

First he knelt and pulled up the eyelid of the feisty White Company sergeant (good,
the pupil is reacting, Grager's order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to
lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to
swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote?
That would've been it, for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did
he figure me out? Wait, this means that they'll be expecting me at Faramir's door, too . . .

The Diinadan sentry in the corridor leading to the Prince's bedchamber heard heavy
dragging footfalls on the stairs. A rustle, a muffled moan, then quiet ... unsure footfalls
again ... He quickly backed into the corridor and drew his sword, ready to sound the alarm
at any moment. The soldier was ready for anything, but when he saw Cheetah appear at the
end of the corridor, bent over double and leaning on the wall, his jaw dropped. Sword at the
ready, the sentry moved forward and quickly scanned the stairs which the captain just
ascended - nothing; Great Manwe, who did this to him? Poison, maybe? Meanwhile, the
captain lost what strength he still had, slid slowly down the wall and was motionless, head
down and still holding his belly; it was evident that he had walked the last few steps already
only half-conscious, on autopilot. The Dunadan looked at Cheetah with a mix of
amazement, fear, and - let's be honest - some glee. The vaunted Secret Guard!
Homegrown nin'yokve, right ... He looked at the stairs where the captain had straggled
from one more time and crouched down to examine the wounded man.

Weird, but when the hood covering Cheetah's face fell back, the soldier's first thought
was that the enigmatic almighty chief of counter-intelligence had for some reason known
only to him decided to turn into an Ore. That was his first absurd thought and he had no
time for a second one: the 'tiger's paw' strike which Tzerlag had chosen for this occasion is
very effective, especially when administered from down up; nothing more was necessary.
Pretty cruel treatment, no doubt, but there was no ban on injuries, only on killing; maybe
we're playing a war game, but dammit, it still isn't a picnic! After a perfunctory search of
the sentry (no keys, but Tzerlag was not really expecting any), the sergeant retrieved the
pack he had left under the stairs, fished out his goodies and got started on the lock.

Pulling up the too-long sleeves of Cheetah's jacket, he mused as he worked: to think
that we made it through the entire war without this, but now I had to lose my innocence.
Laws and Customs of War, paragraph two - using the enemy's uniform or medical symbols.
This rates an instant hanging on the nearest tree, and rightly so, by the by. Well, it'll come
in handy now - better to show up at the prince's as a familiar jailer, rather than some Ore.
Aha! Here's what I'm gonna do: put the hood down again and hand him Grager's paper
without a word. The lock finally gave way, and Tzerlag breathed easier: halfway done! He

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had worked on the lock kneeling, and opened the door from that position without standing
up. That was what saved him - otherwise not even the Orocuen's lightning reflexes would
have been enough to block Faramir's strike.

It is fairly easy, obvious even, to hit a man entering a room from behind a doorpost
(provided that it juts far enough from the wall), but there is a catch. A man best perceives
whatever is happening at his eye level, so if you decide to hammer the visitor on the head
with something like a chair leg, your move will surprise only a total amateur. This is why
people in the know (such as the prince) do not go for brute strength. Instead, they crouch
and strike horizontally rather than vertically. The blow, as mentioned, comes out weaker,
but it hits right where it counts; most importantly, it is exceedingly difficult to react to.

Faramir's script for the next scene was as follows: once Cheetah (or whoever enters
first) bends over with pain, the prince would pull him into the room, beyond the left
doorpost. Eowyn, standing by the right doorpost behind the opened door, would shut and
lean on it with all her weight. Those left outside would immediately try to break in, but their
first attempt would likely be disorganized, giving the girl a good chance to hold it for a few
seconds. Those few seconds should be enough for Faramir to knock Cheetah out and grab
his weapon. Eowyn would jump aside then; those assaulting the door would by then get
organized enough to slam into it together - "one-two!" - and tumble into the room, possibly
falling over. Faramir would immediately stab one of them - for real, no more joking
around. This would likely leave no more than two Whites standing, and since the prince is
one of the top twenty swords of Gondor, the Ithilien royal couple's chances range from
pretty good to excellent should Eowyn manage to grab another sword. Then they would
change into White Company uniforms and try to sneak out of the fort.

This plan had some weak spots (mostly where coordinated action was concerned), but
overall it was pretty good, especially considering that its primary objective was death with
dignity, with escape to freedom a possible bonus. However, as already mentioned, the
Orocuen was still kneeling when he opened the door, so Faramir's first blow hit him in the
chest and he managed to put up a block. Amazed by the prisoner's perceptiveness - just
imagine recognizing an Ore under a White Company sergeant's hood! - Tzerlag
somersaulted back into the corridor, but by the time he got to his feet Faramir was already
out of the room and had cut off his retreat, while the prince's improvised club was a whirl of
wood that was impossible to block. And when a moment later that blond wildcat slipped
behind his back - well, then the sergeant was reduced to rolling around on the floor at their
feet, dodging blows and calling out in the most undignified manner: "Friendly, friendly.
Prince! I'm with Grager and Tangom! Dammit, stop already!"

Then again, Faramir had already guessed something once he noticed the sentry lying
down the corridor.

"Stand up!" he growled. "Hands on the back of your head! Who are you?"

"I surrender!" The sergeant smiled and handed the prince his 'enlistment chit.' "This
is a message from Grager, it explains everything. You read while I drag this guy inside,
we'll need his uniform."

"Cute," the prince grunted, handing Grager' s paper back to Tzerlag. "So now I count
an Orocuen amongst my friends?"

"We're not friends at all. Prince," the other objected calmly, "we're allies. Baron
Tangom ..."

"What?! He's alive?"

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"Yes. We had saved him back in Mordor. By the way, it was he who insisted that I
go rescue you. Anyhow, the Baron asked that you take the palantir when we leave the fort,
as we're gonna leave it now."

"What the hell do they need it for?" The prince was surprised, but no more than that.
He had apparently yielded the initiative to the Ithilienians (in the person of the Orocuen
sergeant) and switched to 'follow the leader' mode. He only nodded questioningly towards
the Dunadan whose jacket Tzerlag had already liberated.

"Yep, he's alive," the Orocuen confirmed, "just a little sleepy. The other one, down
the corridor, is also alive. We abide by your 'no bloodshed' order religiously." The prince
only shook his head: looks like this bloke is reliable.

"You just mentioned having saved Tangom. If so, I'm in your debt. Sergeant; that
man is really dear to me."

"Whatever, we'll settle it," the other grunted. "Put on the uniform and let's go. We
even have an extra sword now."

"What do you mean - 'extra'?" Eowyn finally spoke. "No way!"

The Orocuen glanced at Faramir questioningly, but the prince only opened his hands:
no arguing with this one. "Will we climb the stockade or try the gates?"

"Neither, Prince. The courtyard is chock-full of Whites, all in position and looking for
trouble, no free pass there. We'll try the tunnel."

"The one in the wine cellar?"

"I don't know of any others. Did Beregond tell you about it?"

"Certainly. I know that its door opens out but locks from the inside, so it can be
neither unlocked nor broken down from the outside, as is standard for any secret tunnel out

of a fortress. There's always a sentry at the cellar door: nothing unusual about that, wine
needs guarding. Beregond didn't know where the key was and didn't dare ask directly. So
you've found the key?"

"No," Tzerlag responded lightheartedly, "I'll simply pick the lock."

"How?"

"Exactly how I picked the lock to your door and a couple more on the way, and
exactly how I'll have to pick the lock to the cellar. That'll be the most dangerous part, by
the way: monkeying with the cellar door in plain view. But if we take down the sentry
without fuss and open that door quickly, we're three-quarters done. You, Prince, will stand
guard in your new uniform, like nothing had happened, while Eowyn and I drag the
knocked-out sentry inside and I start working the tunnel lock in peace."

"But that lock has to be hard to pick?"

"I don't think so. It's most likely heavy and sturdy - it has to be, if the door is to
withstand battering from outside - which means not too complicated. All right, let's go!
Prince, did you take the palantirl We have to make it while the Whites are still waiting for
me in the courtyard and there's only one sentry by the wine cellar."

"Wait!" Eowyn spoke again. "What about Beregond? We can't leave him here!"

"Oh, so Beregond has been arrested? We didn't know that."

"Yes, just now. They know everything about him."

Tzerlag thought for only a couple of seconds: "No can do. We don't know where he's
being held and will spend too much time looking. Tonight Grager will grab every single one
of Cheetah's men in the Settlement, so if we free the Prince, tomorrow we'll trade
Beregond. But if we don't get you out, he has no chance anyway."

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"He's right, Eowyn." Faramir tightened the cinch of the sack with the palantir and
hoisted it on his shoulder. "Let's go, in Eru's name!"

The Diinadan standing guard at the wine cellar scanned the large dimly lit hall. The
main entrance to the fort was on his left; to his right the three main stairs leading to the north
and south wings and to the Knights Hall fanned out. What a strange decision to place the
entrance to the cellar in this foyer, rather than in some hidey hole. Then again, everything in
this here Ithilien is weird and unnatural. Start with the Prince, who's not even a prince but
rather a who knows what, and end with the rules of their White Company: whoever heard of
passing officers off as sergeants and privates? It'd be one thing if it was a secret from the
enemy, the local terrorists, say (although no one has seen any yet), but it's from each other!
Allegedly we're in the same army, but we're not supposed to know that Sergeant Gront is
really a captain, while our Lieutenant His Grace Sir Elvard is passing as a private! Funny,
but the Secret Guard guys probably still don't know about Sir Elvard; like they told us at the
briefing: the Secret Guard has its business while His Majesty's Dunedain Royal Guard has
its own ... I dunno, maybe the finks like this setup, but to an honest soldier it's like glass on
stone. What if it turns out that the chief here is the cook or the butler - wouldn't that be
funny?

The sentry looked up: he could hear the approaching footsteps of two people in the
uneasy silence of the deserted fort. In a few seconds he saw them: a private and a sergeant
were coming down the north wing stair at a quick clip, almost running. They were heading
straight to the exit and looked extremely alarmed; are they going for help? The sergeant was
gingerly carrying a sack with something large and round inside it in his outstretched arms.
Almost abreast with the sentry they traded a few words and split up: the private kept going
towards the exit, while the sergeant apparently decided to show his find to the Dunadan.
What's he got there? Looks like it might be a severed head . . .

The rest happened so quickly that the sentry knew that something was amiss only
when his hands were seized in a viselike grip, while the private who showed up behind his
shoulder (to his astonishment, the sentry recognized Faramir) put a blade to his throat. "One
word and you're dead," the prince promised without raising his voice. The Dunadan
swallowed convulsively; deathly pallor covered his face and drops of sweat rolled down his
temples. The two impostors traded looks, and the 'sergeant' (shadowy Mandos! it's an
Ore!) smirked derisively: so this is the West's fighting elite? The smirk turned out to be
completely unwarranted: the young man desperately did not want to die, but in a couple of
seconds he overcame his weakness and yelled: "Alarm!!" so loudly that shouts and clanging
of arms echoed back throughout Emyn Amen.

Chapter 29

Cutting off the Dunadan' s yell with one short chop (the man did not even moan - just
sagged to the floor like a sack of meal), the Orocuen turned to Faramir and addressed a few
choice words to His Highness, the mildest of which was 'jackass.' His Highness took it as
his due; it was he who was suddenly overcome with sentimentality and tried to simply scare
the sentry, rather than knock him out, as Tzerlag insisted. As usual, humanism only made
things worse: the soldier got his predestined share of bruises and internal hemorrhages
anyway, but all for naught. Their situation seemed hopeless now.

In any case there was no time to decide fault. Tzerlag instantly ripped off the sentry's

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black cloak, tossed it to just-arrived Eowyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: "Stand
there, both of you! Swords at the ready!" while he swiftly dragged the Diinadan to the
middle of the hall. The six soldiers who burst in a few seconds later found the leftovers of a
very recent fight: the sentries at the cellar door stood ready to repel any further attack, while
another Diinadan was motionless on the floor; the sergeant kneeling by his side barely
glanced at them, pointed imperatively towards the south stair and again bent over the
wounded man. The soldiers ran where they were told to go, boots thundering, almost
kicking the Orocuen with their scabbards. The group had a break of a few seconds.

"Shall we fight our way to the stockade?" The prince was clearly looking for a nice
quick way to lose his head.

"No, stick to the original plan." With those words Tzerlag got out his tools and calmly
studied the lock.

"But they'll immediately know what we're doing!"

"Yep . . ." The pick went into the keyhole and began feeling out pins.

"So what then?"

"Three guesses, philosopher!"

"Fight?"

"Good boy! I'll be working and you'll be protecting me, just as our estates are
supposed to do ..."

Despite everything, the prince had to laugh: this guy was definitely to his liking.
Right then, there was no time for laughing any more. The brief respite ended the way it had
to: two confused Diinadans came back down the south stair - who are we hunting. Sergeant?
- and three real White Company sergeants appeared in the door. Those twigged to the
situation right away and yelled: "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" and everything else one is
supposed to yell in such circumstances.

Tzerlag kept working on the lock with great concentration, detachment even, ignoring
everything happening behind his back. The conversation that started up was totally
predictable: "Surrender your sword. Your Highness!" "Try taking it!" "Hey, who's over
there - come here!" He only glanced back, and then only for a moment, when the crossing
blades first rang out above his head. Immediately the three White sergeants fell back; one of
them, grimacing with pain, was carefully hugging his right hand under his arm, and his
weapon was on the floor - the 'magic circle' erected by Faramir's and Eowyn' s swords
performed flawlessly so far. The prince, for his part, had no chance to glance back - the
half-circle of Whites, bristling with steel, was drawing close, like a pack of wolves around a
deer - but a short time later he heard a metallic click and then Tzerlag' s strange chuckle.

"What's happening. Sergeant?"

"Everything's fine, but just imagine this picture: the crown prince of Gondor and the
sister of the King of Rohan are covering some Ore's back with their lives . . ."
"Indeed it's funny. How's it going?"

"All set." Behind them there was a creak of rusted hinges and a whiff of musty cold.
"I'm going in; hold the door until my word."

Meantime, the Whites have erected quite a barrier around them and froze. The prince
clearly discerned growing confusion in their actions: where the hell is Cheetah and the rest
of the commanders? Nevertheless, he was sure that those surrounding them were not
attacking only because they were unaware of the tunnel's existence. Finally, a private with a
white band on his arm showed up and gave the prince a ceremonious bow:

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"My apologies, Your Highness. I am Sir Elvard, lieutenant of the Diinedain Royal
Guard. Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?"
"What makes you better than the others?"

"Possibly the Secret Guard had committed some offense against your honor. If that's
the case. His Majesty's Royal Guard, as represented by me, offers its sincere apologies and
guarantees that this will not happen again and that the guilty parties shall be punished. Then
we could conclude this unfortunate incident."

"Fish don't swim backwards. Lieutenant. Her Highness and I have decided to leave
this fort as free people or die trying."

"You leave me no choice but to disarm you by force."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant. Just be careful - you may cut yourself."

This time the assault was more determined. However, while a certain line had not
been crossed, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had an advantage: Eowyn and Faramir
inflicted stabbing wounds to the extremities without hesitation, whereas their opponents so
far did not dare do so. In a short time the attackers had three lightly wounded and the attack
fizzled out. The Diinedain fought unenthusiastically and kept glancing at their lieutenant:
give a clear order already! Cut these two down or what? The Secret Guard men had
prudently taken position in the rear ranks, allowing Sir Elvard to take command (and
responsibility), as the situation appeared deadlocked.

Then, just as Faramir congratulated himself on how good a job of buying time for
Tzerlag they were doing, the man suddenly showed up by his side, scimitar in hand, and said
in a lifeless voice:

"It's a brand-new Umbarian lock. Prince, I can't open it. Surrender before it's too

late."

"It is too late," Faramir snapped. "Tzerlag, can we save you somehow?"

The Orocuen shook his head: "Unlikely. They sure don't need me for a prisoner."

"Eowyn?"

"We will face Mandos together, beloved - what could be better?"

"Then let's at least have some fun first." With those words Faramir advanced
recklessly towards the ranks of the Whites, right at Sir Elvard. "Hold on. Lieutenant! By
the arrows of Orome, we're going to splash your master's robes with our blood - he won't
ever wash it off!"

The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells; now, the fighting was obviously
going to produce the first dead very soon. That was when a voice sounded from somewhere
on the north stair - seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the
combatants: "Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!" There was something in that
voice that froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else's cloak,
leaning on something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant's shoulder
with his right) managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau
and his voice sounded a command: "Faramir, leave! Quick!" A small shiny object tossed
by his hand bounced off Tzerlag' s chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-
headed Umbarian key.

The freeze thawed instantly. At the Orocuen' s command Faramir and Eowyn moved
back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had
finally understood what just happened, cried out: "Treason! They'll escape through the
tunnel!" The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed

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at the prince with his sword and shouted: "Kill him!" Things got serious in a hurry. It
immediately became obvious that Eowyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more
than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the
captured Diinadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing
wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: "It's open.
Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!"

A few seconds later the prince followed Eowyn into the cellar. Right at the threshold
he returned a good blow at the attacking Dunadan, managed to break contact and quickly
backed into the darkness, right into a narrow aisle between empty barrels stacked three high.
"Faster, faster!" Tzerlag's voice sounded from somewhere above him. The Whites were
already in the door, their silhouettes clearly visible against the lit doorway, when suddenly
there was a wooden rumble resembling an avalanche, and darkness fell - not a ray of light
penetrated from the door. Faramir halted in confusion, but then the Orocuen materialized
from somewhere by his side, grabbed his arm and pulled him further into the dark. The
prince's shoulders bumped the walls of the passage, Dunedain yells and curses filtered from
behind, and Eowyn was calling to them in alarm from up ahead.

"What happened, Tzerlag?"

"Nothing much: I simply rocked the empty barrels on top and brought them down to
block the passage. Now we have at least a minute breathing room."

The girl was awaiting them at a small, unusually thick door leading into a narrow and
low (about five feet high) tunnel. It was so dark that even the Orocuen could not see much.

"Eowyn, in there, now! Take the palantir\ Faramir, help me . . . where the hell is it?"

"What're you looking for?"

"A beam. A small beam, about six feet; Grager's men were supposed to leave it on
the other side . . . Aha, here it is! Did you close the door. Prince? Now we prop it from the
outside with this beam ... Come over, let's fit the other end in this hole here. Praise the
One, it's an earthen floor, this will hold well."

A few seconds later the door shuddered under blows from the inside; they were just in

time.

Upstairs in Emyn Amen a hell of a spat was in progress. Sir Edvard, pale with anger,
screamed at the chief of counter-intelligence:

"You're under arrest. Cheetah, or whatever your name is! Know this, bastard: up
North we hang traitors by their legs, so that they have time to reflect before dying! ..."

"Shut up, idiot, it's bad enough already," the captain answered tiredly. He was sitting
on a step, eyes closed, waiting patiently while another man fashioned a crude cast for his
foot. A grimace of pain contorted his face from time to time: a broken foot is a truly
horrendous injury.

"Anyway, you're under arrest," the Dunadan repeated; then he glanced up at the
Secret Guard officers arrayed in a semicircle behind their chief and felt a sudden fear - not
that he scared easily. The seven figures froze in a strange immobility, and their eyes -
usually dark and empty, like a dry well - suddenly shone with a scarlet shimmer, like a
predator's.

"No, don't even think about it," Cheetah said, turning to his people, and the scarlet
shimmer disappeared without a trace. "Let him consider me arrested, if that'll make him
feel better; a fight among the White Company is just what we don't need right now ..."

Suddenly a din rose in the courtyard, then the door opened, and in walked the man

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they least expected to see, flanked by stunned sentries.

"Grager!" Sir Elvard said in astonishment. "How dare you come here? Nobody gave
you safe conduct ..."

The baron smirked. "It's you who's going to need safe conduct now. I am here by the
order of my suzerain, the Prince of Ithilien," he stressed the last words. "His Highness is
prepared to forgive all the evil you've done him and were about to do. Moreover, the Prince
has a plan that will allow His Majesty to save face and you to keep your heads attached."

Chapter 30

Ithilien, the Settlement
May 15, 3019

The morning that day was wonderful. The watercolor blue of the Ephel Duath (what
idiot had decided to call them Mountains of Shadow?) was so transparent that their snowy
peaks appeared to float in the air above the boundless emerald stretches of Ithilien. For
those few minutes the fort of Emyn Arnen on a nearby hill became what its creators must
have imagined it to be: an enchanted forest dwelling, rather than a fortress. The rays of the
rising sun have magically transformed the meadow on the edge of the Settlement - the
plentiful dew that had previously covered it like a coat of noble faded silver suddenly shone
like a spread of uncountable tiny diamonds; perhaps the early May sunrise had surprised the
gnomes who had gathered here for their nightly vigil, so now they have fled to their mouse
holes, abandoning their painstakingly arranged treasures.

Be that as it may, the three or four hundred people gathered at the meadow at this hour
(mostly peasants and soldiers) were probably not inclined to think of the dew poetically: it
had drenched them all, many teeth were close to chattering. Nevertheless, no one left; on
the contrary, people kept gathering. Men from the distant hamlets joined the inhabitants of
the Settlement; news that the White Company was leaving, changing the guard to the newly
reconstituted Ithilien Regiment, has traveled with unimaginable speed, and no one wanted to
miss the show. Now they were looking at the two motionless ranks facing each other - one
black, the other green - at the officers saluting each other with complex movements of bare
swords - "I relieve you." "I stand relieved." - and, amazingly, for the first time thought of
themselves as Ithilienians rather than settlers from Gondor, Amor, or Belfalas.

The Prince of Ithilien was a little pale and did not seem too comfortable in the saddle
(according to experts in such things); then again, there was no lack of pale faces and
beclouded gazes among the White Company, either. ("Guys, betcha the party in the castle
last night was a monster, eh?" "Yeah, see them three Whites in the back row on the right?
You could prob'ly get buzzed from their breath; they look ready to keel over, poor sods.")
In the meantime, Faramir thanked the White Company for faithful service, bid a
ceremonious farewell to his personal guard, and addressed a speech to his subjects:

"Today we are seeing off our friends who had come to our aid in the hour of utmost
need, when the fledgling Ithilien Colony was defenseless against the bands of bloodthirsty
goblins and Wargs; our heartfelt thanks to you. Guards of the Citadel! ("Hey, cousin -
bands o' goblins ... ever see any 'round here?" "Well, cain't say as I had, but they say that
the other day at Otter Creek . . .") The memory of this aid will remain forever in our hearts,
just as the Princedom of Ithilien will forever remain the vassal of the Reunited Kingdom and
its shield beyond the Anduin. However, we will defend the Kingdom as we see fit; we dwell
beyond the Great River, not in Anorien, so we have to live in peace and harmony with all

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the local peoples, whether anybody likes it or not. ("What's he mean, cousin?" "Well, I
reckon that, say, them Trolls in the Mountains of Shadow - word is they have iron like dirt,
but not much lumber." "Yeah, I s'pose ...") Anyway. All hail the King of Gondor and
Amor!" ("Weird, cousin ..." "Hey, dumbass, see 'em roll out the barrels over yonder? For
a free drink I'll hail even His Majesty . . . Hurrah!")

The messenger from Minas Tirith (a lieutenant of the Dunedain Royal Guard) showed
up at the meadow when the ceremony was in full swing, his horse all lathered and breathing
hard. Sir Elvard, thoroughly cowed by the Secret Guard ("Oblige me by smiling, sir. Smile,
you hear?!"), now helplessly watching this unheard-of treachery - surrender of a key
fortress without a fight - looked up and a desperate hope arose in his heart: His Majesty
must have learned about this rebellion somehow and has sent him an order to polish off all
those dyed-in-the-wool traitors - from Faramir to Cheetah . . . Alas, the message was indeed
from Aragorn, but it was addressed to the captain of the Secret Guard. Cheetah broke the
White Tree seal right then and there and lost himself in reading; then he folded the message
unhurriedly and handed it to Sir Elvard with a strange chuckle:

"Read this. Lieutenant. I think you'll find it interesting."

The letter was a set of detailed instructions on how the White Company was to
proceed under the new circumstances. Aragorn wrote that the preservation of the status quo
required identifying all the bases of the Ithilien Regiment and destroying them in one fell
swoop, so that not a single man would escape. The strike was to be lightning-fast and
absolutely secret; as for who was to be blamed for this monstrous evil deed - the mountain
Trolls, goblins, or Morgoth himself - that was up to the captain. However, should there be
any doubts whatsoever as to the success of such an operation (for example, if critical time
was lost and there were already almost as many Ithilienians as the Whites), then it was to be
aborted. In that case they were to make virtue out of necessity: transfer the duty of guarding
Emyn Amen to the officers of the Ithilien Regiment in exchange for Faramir' s confirmation
of his vassal's oath and retum to Minas Tirith, leaving only their intelligence network
behind. His Majesty reminded that Faramir' s life was sacrosanct in any and all
circumstances, and that anyone who would provoke, knowingly or otherwise, an open
confrontation between the Ithilienians and the White Company (which event would
immediately cause a guerilla war in the princedom and tear apart the Reunited Kingdom)
will be executed for treason. To put it succinctly: finish the job if you start it, but don't even
start if you can't.

His Majesty wrote in a post-scriptum: "There are many sovereigns in this world who
love cloaking their orders in hints in order to later blame those doing their will for
'misunderstanding orders.' Be it known that Elessar of Valandil is not one of them - he
always accepts responsibility and calls things what they are, and his orders say only what
they say. Should there be found among the White Company any officers who - motivated
by excess zeal - would mistake explicit bans for veiled wishes of the King, Captain Cheetah
is to neutralize any such officer at any cost."

"As you can see. Lieutenant, by letting you live during your escapades last night, I
was going against the King's orders, to some extent."

"So you've known about this order?" Sir Elvard looked at Cheetah with superstitious

fear.

"You're overestimating my abilities. It's just that, unlike you, I can figure at least two
moves in advance ..."

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"They're leaving! Look, they really are leaving!" Grager breathed finally, watching
the column of Whites take to the Osgiliath Highway. He kept the fingers of his left hand
crossed in a special way, just in case. "To confess, I didn't quite believe it and kept waiting
for some treachery to the last moment . . . You're a genius. Your Majesty!"

"That's 'Your Highness,' Baron, and please keep in mind - I absolutely will not
tolerate any joking in this matter."

"My apologies. Your Highness."

"However," Faramir looked over the Ithilien Regiment fighters gathered around him
with a slight smile, "each one of you is hereby entitled to address me as 'my Captain,' for
old times' sake. Obviously, this will not be a hereditary privilege. All right, lads. Her
Highness will show you to the castle - the food is served and the bottles are uncorked -
while myself and the officers and . . . erm . . . our Eastern guests will catch up with you in
ten minutes or so . . . So what were you wishfully saying there. Baron Grager: you really
think that they've left?"

"No, my Captain. Their spy network ..."

"Yes, exactly. What do you propose to do about it?"

"Nothing, Your Highness."

"Explain."

"Sure. It makes no sense to prosecute those of Cheetah's people that we've identified:
since Ithilien was and is a vassal of Gondor, they've committed no crime by working for the
monarch of the Reunited Kingdom. Sometimes in such circumstances you do away with a
spy quietly, but that's an extreme measure: by doing so we'd announce to Minas Tirith that
we're at the very least openly hostile, if not at war with them. But most importantly. Prince,
I'm almost certain that we have not identified the entire network. Should we arrest the ones
we know, we'd allow them free use of any remaining agents. Whereas if we touch nobody,
it'll be impossible to figure out what we know, so they'll have to consider the entire network
compromised. Even if they don't simply abandon it, I think they'll put it to sleep for a long
time. At least I wouldn't touch such a semi-compromised network with a ten-foot pole, if I
were them."

"Very well; this will be your call now. Baron Grager. I hereby promote you to
Captain and grant you the requisite powers."

"Wow!" Tangom laughed. "I see that the setup of the state of Ithilien is proceeding
in an unusual fashion - its first institution is the counter-intelligence service!"

Faramir shrugged: "With neighbors such as these ... In any event, I doubt that this is
of much interest to our guests. Tzerlag, where are you? ... I have to admit to a certain
difficulty. Sergeant: your feats of last night definitely make you worthy of a knighthood, but
that would create a host of technical problems. Besides, what use is Gondorian knighthood
to a desert warrior?"

Tzerlag shook his head. "No use. Your Highness."

"See? Well, I guess there's no choice but to follow the ancient legends: ask your

heart's desire. Sergeant! But please keep in mind that I don't have daughters of
marriageable age yet, and as for the Prince's treasury . . . what do we have there, Beregond?"
"A hundred thirty six gold pieces. Your Highness."

"Yeah, not quite the Hoard of Vendotenia ... Perhaps you'd like to think about it.
Sergeant? Oh, by the way, I have another debt to pay - for your rescue of this fair sir."

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The Orocuen was abashed. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but we . . . how should I put it
. . . we're kinda together, so our request will be mutual. Better let Baron Tangom tell you;
consider that I gave my rights over to him."

"Ah so?" The prince looked over the three comrades with gay amusement. "This just
keeps getting more interesting. I suppose it's a confidential request?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"As I understand it. Baron, you're going to ask for the palantir" Faramir began after
they rode about twenty paces away from the rest of the group. He was gloomy, with no
trace of amusement remaining on his face.

"So you've guessed already. Prince?"

"I'm not a total fool; why else would you ask me to escape with it? I just couldn't
imagine that you're working together with these guys. So now I'll have to hand a magic
crystal over to Mordorians. A nice bind you got me into, no question."

"That is not so. Your Highness. Haladdin is not in Mordor's service any more; he is
acting by himself and on behalf of entire Middle Earth, if I may be so bold. The sad thing is
that I don't have the right to let you know what his mission is, therefore I ask you to trust
me."

Faramir brushed it off: "That's not what I'm talking about. You know that I've
always trusted you; more than I trust myself, in some things. No, the thing is - what if all
three of you are someone else's puppets and that someone is using you for his own gain?
Try analyzing this situation once more, this time as a professional spy, rather than a friend of
Haladdin and Tzerlag."

"I've done so many times and have this to say: whoever had started this originally,
Haladdin will only play his own game, and this guy is very, very resilient - take my word
for it - even though he doesn't look the part. And another thing - I really like him, and I
will do what I can to help him win."

After some thought the prince grumbled: "All right. Let's consider me persuaded.
How can I help you three?"

"First, please accept my resignation," the baron began, and explained to puzzled
Faramir: "I will have to visit Umbar for some time, and I plan to operate there as a private
person, so as not to put Your Highness in a false light ..."

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Chapter 31

Gondor, Minas Tirith
May 17, 3019

"Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Gondor and Amor!" the master of ceremonies
announced and vanished into thin air, like he had not been there at all. Palace servants

everywhere seem to have a sixth sense in addition to formal training. Aragorn had nerves of
steel (a necessity in his former profession) and concealed the true feelings that the
expression 'Her Majesty the Queen' aroused in him perfectly well. Nevertheless, the rascal
seemed to feel somehow that every time those words were uttered His Royal Majesty
Elessar Elfstone had a fleeting desire to either turn the speaker over to the Secret Guard (the
Valar spare us), or simply to unsheathe the Anduril and split the offender in half - head to
tailbone.

Gods, how beautiful she was! No human language has words to describe her beauty,
while the Elves need no words. Actually, it was not her beauty as such, but her absolute
star-like unattainability that was the leash used to guide him all these years, ever since he
first got to the Enchanted Forest and met - by pure coincidence, of course! - Arwen
Undomiel, the Evenstar of Imladris, the daughter of Master Elrond himself. No one can find
out now why the Elves picked him rather than any of the other innumerable Diinedain
princes (strictly speaking, almost every Dunadan thinks himself a prince, tracing his lineage
if not from Isildur, then for sure at least from Earendur). Be that as it may, the Firstborn
chose well: Aragorn performed his task with excellence.

Now he was looking at her with a feeling he had never known before: desperation.
Any further struggle is useless; how long can he chase a mirage? Yes, time to sum up, and
there's no reason to lie to oneself. So: an obscure chief of northern rangers had won the
greatest of all wars in the history of Middle Earth, ascended the throne of the Reunited
Kingdom, and became the first among Western sovereigns - but none of that had brought
him an inch closer to possessing this woman.

"What do you want from me, Arwen?" He knew he was saying the wrong thing in the
wrong way, but could do nothing about it. "I crushed Mordor and laid the crown of Gondor
and Amor at your feet; if that's not enough, I will spread our borders beyond the Sea of
Rhun and the mountains of Vendotenia. I will conquer Harad and the other countries of the
Far East and make you Queen of the world - just give the word!"

"Don't you want all that yourself?"

"Not any more. Now I want only you . . . You know, it seems to me that I was closer
to you back then, in Rivendell ..."

"Please understand," her face once again assumed an expression of weary compassion,
like a teacher who has to explain a grammar mle to a dim student for the tenth time, "I may
not belong to any Man; don't torture yourself for nothing. Recall the story of Prince Valacar
and Princess Vidumavi; your own chronicles say: 'For the high men of Gondor already
looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the
heir to the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race.' No
wonder it sparked a civil war. Whereas compared with the nobility of my heritage there's
no difference even between Isildur and some black chieftain from Far Harad. But even that
is not much compared to the real obstacle - our age difference. To me, you're not even a
boy, but a baby. Would you take a three-year-old to wife, even if she looked like an adult?"

"So that's how it is ..."

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"Of course, and you're even behaving like a spoiled child. Bored with the royal power
in just a few days, you now want a new toy - Arwen, the Evenstar of Imladris! Think about
it - you would trade even love for a handful of candy: the crowns of Men's kingdoms. After
all those years of dealing with Elves, have you not understood that none of us wants power
as such? Believe me, I see no difference between the crown of Gondor and this chalice -
they both are just gem-studded pieces of silver."

"Yes, looks like I'm just a baby. And you've tricked me, back then in Lorien, just like
a baby."

"You have tricked yourself," she objected calmly. "Please remember how it
happened."

The next moment a silvery fog covered the walls of the palace hall, blurry silhouettes
of Lorien mallorns showed through it, and he heard again Elrond's soft voice right next to
him: "Perhaps my daughter will revive the rule of Men in Middle Earth, but no matter how
much I love you, I will tell you this: Arwen Undomiel will not change the course of her fate
for a small man. Only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become her husband ..." The
voice of the Ruler faded away, and Aragorn again saw Arwen before him - she had restored
the hall to its former appearance with a casual wave of her hand.

"This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathom. It's the honest truth: only
the king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did
anybody promise that he will actually become one?"

He smiled crookedly. "You're right, as always. A baby such as myself could never
think of such a thing - the Lord of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he can
find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster."

"You were paid for your work in honest coin - the Re-forged Sword and the throne of
the Reunited Kingdom."

"Yes, the throne I don't control!"

She frowned a little. "Don't demean yourself. Besides, you knew from the very
beginning that you'd get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne."

"You mean a regent."

"Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: Lorien sent you not just
anyone but myself as the advisor, so that it looks like a regular dynastic marriage to your
subjects. You, on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now intend to add the
daughter of the Lord of Elves to your collection of sluts!"

"You know that this is not so." There was nothing but weary submission in his voice
now. "Back in Lorien, when you accepted Barahir's ring from me . . ."

"Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and Liithien? Understand
already that this is no more than a legend, and a human legend, at that - an Elf can only
laugh at it."

"Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf
and a Man to be bestiality, right?"

"Let's end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to
one's agreements. Don't you think that a second 'accident' befalling a man from my
entourage in as many weeks is a bit much?"

"Oh, so that's what you wanted to discuss."

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"Precisely, my dear. If you all imagine that Lorien is incapable of protecting the
people working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they'll remember forever -
if there's anyone left to remember."

Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts
helps a man out of a swoon; the bewitchment dispelled, and the Diinadan was becoming
himself again - a white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. "Allow me to remind you, my
dear, that you're not the masters here - not yet. Let's call a spade a spade: had your
'entourage' been a real embassy, all of them would've been expelled long ago 'for activities
incompatible with diplomatic status.'"

"You know," Arwen said thoughtfully, "sometimes you're undone by excessive logic
- it makes you predictable. You wouldn't have resorted to such measures without a dire
need; therefore, the dead men had gotten close to something top-secret and extremely
important. Hence, all I had to do was find out what they were working on in their last days."

"Any progress?"

"Oh yes, quite a lot! If one can call it progress. I confess that we've tended to
overlook your games with the dead; to be honest, no one believed that a mortal could master
the Shadow Spell well enough to actually bring them back to life. But now you have
decided to inherit the black knowledge of Mordor, too; you're gathering those poisoned
shards wherever you can and apparently expect to get away with it ... There's no denying
that you're a top-grade adventurer (that's what we were choosing for among very many):
highly intelligent, desperately brave, and totally merciless to others and himself. I know that
you're no novice at juggling live cobras, but believe me: you have never - by the Halls of
Valinor! - never played a game as dangerous as this!"

"I'm also very pragmatic. The thing is, those games are as dangerous to you Elves as
to me; I'm glad that you've finally understood the danger. I am ready to undo it all if I'm
properly paid."

"Ah so? What is your price, then?"

"You already know the price, and there'll be no other."

Arwen walked away in silence, like a vertical sunbeam piercing a dusty room; when
she looked back at his soft "Wait!" it was a victory greater than Pelennor or Cormallen.

"Wait," he repeated, then carelessly tossed up the silver chalice she had just used to
illustrate her invective, caught and crushed it in a single movement like it was made of

paper; the encrusted rubies burst through his fingers like drops of blood and rattled across
the marble floor. "By the Halls of Valinor," he repeated her words slowly, "I, too, no longer
see a difference between the crown of Gondor and this chalice; sorry that the crown wasn't
to hand."

He casually tossed Arwen the lump of silver so that she was forced to catch it and left
without looking back. It looked like for the first time ever a battle went to him. Yes, she's
right - he's playing the most dangerous game of all and isn't about to turn back. He wants
this woman, and he will have her whatever the cost. This will never happen while Elves
remain Elves? Very well, then the whole foundation of their power must be crushed. That
is a task of unimaginable complexity, but a lot more fun than, say, the conquest of Harad . . .

The voice of the guard on duty finally brought him back to reality: "Your Majesty!
Your Majesty! The White Company is back from Ithilien. Shall I ask them in?"

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Aragorn stood silently, head down and arms crossed over his chest; Cheetah sat in
front of him in an armchair, bandaged foot awkwardly turned aside. He had finished his
unhappy report a few minutes ago and was now awaiting the verdict.

Finally His Majesty raised his gaze. "Under those circumstances your actions have to
be judged as appropriate. Captain. I would' ve done the same thing in your place. Well,
that's no surprise."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Our shadow is your shadow."

"You seem to want to ask something?"

"Yes. While in Ithilien we were bound hand and foot by the order to preserve
Faramir's life. Don't you think it necessary to revise . . ."

"No, 1 don't." The Diinadan strode through the room thoughtfully. "You see, 1 have
lived a turbulent life and am guilty of a multitude of sins, including some mortal ones . . .
but I have never been an oath-breaker, and never will be."

"What relevance does this have to real politics?"

"A very direct one. Faramir is a man of honor, so while 1 keep up my side of the
bargain, he won't abandon his, and I'm fairly satisfied with the status quo."

"But now all who are unhappy with Your Majesty's rule will gather in Ithilien!"

"Certainly, and that's wonderful! This will rid me of opposition in Gondor - with no
bloodshed, mind you. It will be Faramir's problem now to make sure that those folks don't
do anything about restoring the old dynasty - he's oath-bound, too."

"So it doesn't concern you that the Prince of Ithilien has already started some sort of
murky dealings with the East?"

"This wasn't in your report! Where did you get this information?"

"You see, the man who broke my foot was an Orocuen scout; the same night an
Umbarian physician - Haladdin, I remember his name well - set it. Those guys came from
beyond the Mountains of Shadow together with the well-known baron Tangorn ..."

"Hey! Describe this doctor to me!" Cheetah looked at Aragorn in surprise; the King
leaned forward and his voice cracked a bit.

"... Yes, it's him, without a doubt," the Dunadan murmured and closed his eyes for a
few seconds. "So Tangorn had found Haladdin in Mordor and dragged him over to Faramir
in Ithilien ... Damn but you've kept the worst news for last. Captain! Looks like I have
seriously underestimated that philosopher."

"Forgive me. Your Majesty, for not yet knowing - who is this Haladdin?"

"Ah. You see, you're about to head a small top-secret group - Task Force Feanor; it is
not even a part of the Secret Guard and reports directly to me. Its strategic task for the
foreseeable future is to gather knowledge left behind by Mordor and Isengard for our own
purposes. You can't make do with just the books in this business, you need the people, too.
A certain Doctor Haladdin is number eighteen on our list. Of course, it could be a
coincidence that he met Tangorn, Faramir's Umbarian resident, but I don't believe in such
coincidences."

"Then you think . . . Faramir is doing the same thing?"

"Usually, astute thoughts occur to clever minds simultaneously; by the way, the Elves
are engaged in the same kind of search, to other ends, of course. The thing is that Faramir
will have a much easier time searching thanks to his old connections in the East. That list
we have is based on pre-war reports of his resident spies - praise Manwe that we, rather than
the Elves, got the Royal archives ... In any case. Captain - find Tangorn immediately and

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get everything he knows out of him; then consider how to get our hands on whatever Ithilien
has. There's no task of greater importance now."

"An abduction right out of Emyn Arnen?" Cheetah shook his head dejectedly. "But
that damned Grager has practically destroyed our network there, it can hardly handle such a
task."

"Tangom won't stay in Emyn Arnen. No doubt Faramir will send him to Umbar,
where he's had so much success before the war: it's full of Mordorian emigrants now, plus
it's the best possible location for secret diplomatic missions. Certainly they've already hid
Haladdin somewhere ... actually, that's easy to check. I'll send a courier to Emyn Amen
right away - I owe the Prince of Ithilien my best regards anyway. Should the messenger
find neither Haladdin nor Tangom there - which is what I expect - send your people to
Umbar at once. Get moving. Captain, and get well soon: there's plenty of work to do."

"So where is Wolverine now?"

"He's in Isengard, commanding a band of Dunlending marauders. His task is
obtaining 'blasting fire.'"

"What about Mongoose?"

"He's in MindoUuin, a prisoner in the quarry," answered the Task Force Feanor
member tasked with briefing Cheetah, clarifying: "He's with Operation Mockingbird,
Captain. His extraction is planned for next Tuesday."

"Can you speed up the completion of that operation?"

"No, Captain, sir. Mongoose is working without cover, and that quarry is the Queen's
men bailiwick. Should we expose him, he'll be dead in five minutes or less: 'escape
attempt' and finished."

"Very well," he estimated a courier's round-trip to Emyn Amen, "this will keep till
Tuesday. Send him to me the moment he shows up."

Chapter 32

Condor, Mount MindoUuin
May 19, 3019

From bird's eye view the MindoUuin quarry which supplied limestone to Minas Tirith
builders looked like a chipped porcelain bowl, its inside covered by hundreds of tiny
persistent house ants looking for traces of sugar. On a nice day like today the white cavity
functioned as a sunlight-gathering reflector, and its inner area, isolated from the winds, was
hot as hell. And this in the middle of May; Kumai tried not to think of what it was going to
be like in the summer. Sure, the prisoners who ended up in Anfalas, on the galleys, fared
much worse, but that was not much of a consolation. He was actually very lucky today,
having drawn a work detail at the very top edge, where a refreshing breeze blew and there
was almost no chocking calcium dust. Of course, those working on the outer perimeter of
the quarry had to wear leg irons, but he found that an agreeable trade-off.

For the second week now Kumai' s partner was Mbanga, a mumak driver from the
Harad battalion who did not speak Common. Over the last six weeks the overseers had
kicked into him the knowledge of all the words they considered necessary and sufficient (up,
go, carry this, roll that, hands on the back of your head); however, translating the expression
'lazy black ass' stumped both sides, so they made do with 'nigger.' Mbanga was in kind of
a permanent semi-dreaming state and did not seek to expand his vocabulary by

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communicating with the other prisoners. Perhaps he still mourned his perished Tongo - the
mumakil and their drivers develop a human-like friendship, far beyond any bond between a
rider and his beloved horse. Or maybe in his mind the Southron was in his unimaginably
distant South, where the stars over the savannah are so large that you can reach them with
the tip of your assegai if you stretch, where any man can use simple magic to turn into a
Uon, and where every woman is beautiful and tireless in love.

Once upon a time that area had been home to a mighty civilization, which left behind
nothing but stepped pyramids overgrown with lush tropical greenery and roads paved with
basalt plates leading nowhere. The modem history of Harad began less than a hundred years
prior, when a young and energetic chief of a tribe of cattlemen from the interior named
Fasimba swore to destroy the slave trade, and succeeded. It must be noted parenthetically
that the countries of the South and the East had slave trade since time immemorial, but not
on any serious scale; it was mostly limited to selling beauties into harems, plus other such
exotica that had no economic underpinnings. The situation changed drastically when the
Khand Caliphate 'industrialized' the business, establishing a regular trade in black slaves
throughout Middle Earth.

A well-fortified Khandian colony candidly named Slaveport arose on the shore of a
deep bay at the mouth of the Kuvango, the main river artery of Eastern Harad. Its
inhabitants first tried slave -raiding themselves, but quickly realized that this was a grueling
and dangerous task; as one of them put it, "much like shaving a pig: lots of squeaUng, little
hair." This did not faze them; they established mutually beneficial alliances with chiefs of
the coastal tribes. One Mdikva became their main trading partner. From that point on, live
merchandise was in steady supply in Khand' s markets, in exchange for beads, mirrors, and
poorly distilled rum.

Many people had pointed out both to the inhabitants of Slaveport and their respectable
wholesalers in Khand that their way of making a living was dirtier than dirt. To that they
responded philosophically that business was business and as long as there was demand it
was going to be satisfied by one supplier or another (this line of reasoning is by now
universally known, so there is no need to cite it in full). Be that as it may, Slaveport boomed
and its businessmen got rich quickly, with the side benefit of being able to satisfy their most
exotic sexual fantasies thanks to the plentiful supply of young black girls (and boys) in their
temporary possession.

Such was the situation when Fasimba successfully poisoned six neighboring chiefs at
a friendly party (actually he was the one supposed to have been poisoned, but quite adroitly
he struck first, as was his style), joined their domains to his own and declared himself
Emperor. After assembling the warriors of all seven chiefdoms into a single army and
instituting both a unified command and capital punishment for any expression of tribalism,
the young chief invited military advisors from Mordor, which jumped at the chance to
establish a counterweight to neighboring Khand. The Mordorians fairly quickly taught the
black warriors, who knew neither fear nor discipline, how to function together in closed
ranks, and the result exceeded all expectations. In addition, Fasimba was the first to fully
appreciate the true battle potential of the mumakil; of course, they had been used in war
since time immemorial, but he was the one to standardize and streamline the taming of
calves in large numbers, thus essentially creating a new army service. The effect was
similar to that of tanks in our day and age: one war machine attached to an infantry battalion

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is a useful thing to have, but no more than that, whereas fifty tanks gathered into a single
armored fist is a force that drastically changes the nature of war.

Three years after Fasimba's military reform he declared a war of total destruction on
the coastal chiefs that were involved in slave-raiding and crushed them all in less than six
months; finally, Mdikva's turn came. Spirits were low in Slaveport until a messenger of the
coastal kinglet brought good news: Mdikva's warriors have met Fasimba's vaunted army in
a decisive battle and triumphed completely, and soon the town will receive a large shipment
of good strong slaves. The Khandians breathed a sigh of relief and complained to the
messenger that slave prices at the metropolis markets were down sharply (which was a total
Ue). The man was not overly displeased: there were so many prisoners that there would be
enough rum to last half a year.

The slave caravan, personally led by Mdikva, arrived at the appointed time - a
hundred eighty men and twenty women. Despite the messenger's boasts, the chained men
had a poor appearance: worn-out, covered in bruises and wounds haphazardly bandaged
with banana leaves. However, the women, paraded totally naked at the head of the column,
were of such qualities that the entire garrison crowded around them, salivating and unwilling
to look at anything else. This proved their undoing, for the chains were fake, the blood was
paint, and the slaves themselves were the Emperor's personal guard. The banana leaf
bandages concealed star-shaped throwing knives lethal for up to fifteen yards, but the
guardsmen could have done without any weapons: every one of them could outrun a horse in
a short sprint, dodge a flying arrow, and break eight stacked tiles with a bare fist. The city
gates were captured in mere seconds, and Slaveport fell. Fasimba commanded the operation
himself: it was he who led the 'slave caravan' dressed in Mdikva's leopard-skin cape,
familiar to the entire coast; the Emperor knew well that the members of the master race have
never bothered to learn to tell 'all those blackies' apart. Mdikva himself had no further need
of the cape; by that time, the ferocious fire ants in whose path he had been staked (this was
now the punishment for aiding the slave trade) had already turned the coastal ruler into a
well-cleaned skeleton.

Two weeks later a slave transport ship from Khand tied up at Slaveport. The captain,
somewhat surprised by the deserted piers, went into town. He came back escorted by three
armed Haradrim and in a voice shaky with fear told the crew to come ashore and help load
the cargo. To be fair, the nature of the cargo they were to take on would have shaken
anyone.

It was 1,427 tanned human skins: the entire population of Slaveport, save seven
infants whom Fasimba had spared for some unknown reason. Each skin bore an inscription
made by the town's clerk (who was paid honestly by being killed last with a relatively easy
death) - its owner's name and a detailed description of the tortures he had to endure before
being skinned alive. The women's skins bore a notation of exactly how many black
warriors have thoroughly appreciated their qualities; the town women were few and the
warriors were many, so the numbers varied but were invariably impressive. Only a few
inhabitants of Slaveport were lucky enough to merit a brief note 'died in battle.' The top of
the bill was the stuffed mayor, a relative of the Caliph himself. Professional taxidermists
probably would not have approved of the material used as stuffing - the very beads
Khandians had used to pay for slaves - but the Emperor had his reasons.

Some will say that such monstrous cruelty has no justification; the chief of the
Haradrim must have simply passed off his personal sadistic tendencies as revenge on the

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oppressors. Others will talk of 'historical retribution' and blame the 'excesses' on what the
Haradrim, who were no angels, had suffered over the previous years. Such a discussion
seems pointless on its merits, and is in any event irrelevant in this case. What Fasimba did
to the inhabitants of the ill-fated town was neither a spontaneous expression of the chiefs
cruelty nor revenge for ancestral suffering; rather, it was an important element of a fine
strategic plan, conceived and carried out with a totally cool head.

Chapter 33

Having received a gift of his subjects' hides and a stuffed relative, the Caliph of
Khand reacted in precisely the way the Emperor was counting on. He had the captain and
crew beheaded (choose your cargo better next time!), publicly swore to have Fasimba
stuffed in the same manner, and ordered his army to Harad. His advisors, forewarned by the
sailors' sad fate, did not speak against this dumb idea; they did not dare to even insist on
some reconnaissance first. Rather than supervise preparations for the expedition, the Caliph
indulged in devising the tortures he was going to inflict on Fasimba once he had him.

A month later twenty thousand Khand soldiers landed at the mouth of Kuvango next
to the ruins of Slaveport and marched into the country. It should be mentioned that in terms
of the amount of iron they had to carry (and especially the gold-plated doodads studding said
iron) the Khand warriors were unequaled in all Middle Earth. The problem was that their
battle experience was limited to putting down peasant revolts and similar policing actions. It
looked like this was quite enough to deal with the black savages - the Haradrim fled in panic
the moment they saw the menacing gleam of the iron phalanx. The Khandians chased the
haphazardly retreating enemy through the coastal jungle and entered the savannah, where
they met Fasimba' s patiently waiting main force the very next morning.

Too late did the Caliph's nephew commanding the army realize that the Harad forces
were twice the size of his and about ten times as effective. Strictly speaking, there was no
battle as such: there was one devastating mumakil attack, followed by a disorderly rout and
chase of the fleeing enemy. The casualty tallies speak for themselves: a thousand and a half
killed and eighteen thousand captured Khandians versus about a hundred dead Haradrim.

A short time later the Caliph received from Fasimba a detailed account of the battle
together with an offer to trade all the prisoners for all the Haradrim enslaved in Khand.
Alternatively, the Caliph was advised to send to Slaveport a ship capable of taking on
eighteen thousand human skins; by then Khand knew well that the Emperor was not joking.
Fasimba made another foresighted move when he freed about two hundred prisoners and
sent them home to inform the entire population of Khand as to the nature of the Haradi offer.
As was to be expected, the people became restless and the smell of rebellion was in the air.
A week later the Caliph, whose armed forces had been reduced to his palace guard, gave in.
The exchange Fasimba had offered took place in Slaveport, and the Emperor acquired the
status of a living deity among his people - for to the Haradrim a return from Khandian
slavery was only a little short of resurrection.

Since then, the fearsome Harad Empire (which had neither a written language nor
cities, but plenty of ritual cannibalism, dire black magic, and witch-hunting) had widened its
borders considerably. At first the black warriors expanded only to the south and east, but in
the last twenty years or so they have turned their gaze north and bit off a significant chunk
of Khandian territory, approaching closely to the borders of Umbar, South Gondor, and
Ithilien. The Mordorian ambassador at the Emperor's court sent dispatch after dispatch to

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Barad-dur: unless swift measures are taken, soon the civilized states of Central and Western
Middle Earth will face an opponent more terrifying than any other - untold multitudes of
excellent warriors who know neither fear nor mercy.

Therefore, relying on a Khandian saying 'the only way to get rid of crocodiles is to
drain the swamp,' Mordor began sending missionaries South. Those did not bother the
blacks with sermons about the One too much, rather spending their time treating sick
children and teaching them arithmetic and reading, for which purpose they invented a
written version of the Haradi language based on the Common alphabet. When one of its
creators, a Reverend Aljuno, read the first text created by a little Southron (it was a
description of a lion hunt, remarkable in its poetic qualities), he knew that he had not lived
for naught.

It would be an obvious exaggeration to say that these activities have resulted in a
noticeable tempering of the local mores. However, the missionaries themselves enjoyed an
almost religious reverence, and the word 'Mordor' elicited the most white-toothed of smiles
from any Southron. Besides, Harad (unlike some 'civilized' countries) had never suffered
from selective memory loss; everybody there knew full well who had helped them against
the Khandian slavers. That was why Emperor Fasimba the Third immediately responded to
the Mordorian ambassador's request for help against the Western Coalition with a select
force of cavalry and mumakil - the very Harad battalion that fought so valiantly on the
Pelennor Fields under the scarlet Serpent banner.

Only a few black men survived that battle, including the cavalry commander, the
famous Captain Umglangan. Ever since that day he had a recurrent vision, bright as day:
two ranks facing each other in portentous silence upon a strange blue savannah, fifteen yards
apart - the range of the assegai; both are comprised of the best warriors of all times, but the
right line lacks one fighter. It's time to start, but for some reason Udugvu the Fearsome has
pity on Umglangan and is delaying the signal to begin this best of men's amusements -
where are you. Captain? Take your place in the rank quickly! ... What is a warrior to do
when his heart calls him to the foot of Udugvu' s black basalt throne while the commander's
duty orders him to report to his Emperor? It was a hard choice, but he chose Duty, and now,
after surviving a thousand dangers, he has already reached the borders of Harad.

He is bringing sad news to Fasimba: the men of the North who were like brothers to
the Haradrim have fallen in battle, and now there is nobody but enemies in the Northern
lands. But this is wonderful, in a way - now there are so many battles and glorious victories
ahead! He had seen the warriors of the West in action, and there's no way they will
withstand the black fighters when those are an army rather than a small volunteer battalion
under the scarlet banner. He will report that the cavalry gap which had so concerned them is
no more: not so long ago the Haradrim didn't know how to fight on horseback, and now
they had acquitted themselves well against the best cavalry of the West. Nor do the
Westerners know anything about Haradi infantry yet; of all he had seen there only the Trolls
could possibly match it, and now no one. And the mumakil are the mumakil - the closest
thing to an absolute weapon. Had we not lost twenty of them in that cursed forest ambush,
who knows how the tide might have turned at the Pelennor Fields? They're afraid of fire
arrows? Not a problem, we'll take care of that when training calves. The West had chosen
its fate when it crushed Mordor which stood between it and the Haradrim.

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Mbanga the driver was concerned with a problem much less global in scope. Despite
having no knowledge of mathematics, ever since that morning he had been working on a
fairly complicated planimetric problem which Engineer Second Class Kumai (had he known
about his partner's plans) would have described as 'minimization of the sum of two variable
distances' - from Mbanga to the overseer and from the overseer to the edge of the quarry.
Of course, he is not Umglangan's equal to count on a place in the ranks of the best warriors
of all times, but if he manages to die as planned, then Udugvu in his boundless mercy will
allow him to forever hunt lions in his heavenly savannah. Carrying out the plan was not
going to be easy, though. Mbanga, weakened by six weeks of near-starvation and hard
labor, intended to kill with his bare hands a large man, armed to the teeth and far from
absent-minded, in less than twenty seconds; if he took any longer than that, the other
warders would reach him and whip him to death: a piteous slave's demise . . .

It happened so quickly that even Kumai missed Mbanga' s first move. He saw only a
black lightning hitting the overseer's legs - the Southron crouched as if to adjust his
shackles and suddenly lunged headfirst; so does a deadly tree mamba strike its prey,
penetrating a tangle of branches with astonishing precision. The black man's right shoulder
struck the warder's supporting leg full force exactly under the kneecap; Kumai imagined
actually hearing the wet crunch of the joint sack tearing and the delicate cartilage menisci
snapping out of their sockets. The Gondorian sagged down without even a moan in pain
shock; in a blink of an eye the Haradi slung the unconscious man over his shoulder and
hurried towards the precipice at a fast shackle trot. Mbanga beat the guards converging on
him from all directions by a good thirty yards; having reached the coveted edge, he tossed
his burden down into the shining white abyss and turned to calmly await his enemies,
captured sword in hand.

Of course, none of those Western carrion-eaters dared cross blades with him - they
simply showered him with arrows. This, however, was of no importance: he had managed
to die in battle, weapon in hand, earning the right to throw the first assegai in the heavenly
Hon hunt. What's three arrows in the gut compared to such eternal bliss?

The Haradrim always die smiling, and this smile boded nothing good for the Western
countries, as some far-sighted men were already beginning to guess.

Chapter 34

"Bastard's dead!" the huge blond overseer concluded disappointedly after carefully
crushing Mbanga's fingers with his heel (no reaction); then he trained his bloodshot eyes on
Kumai, standing motionless to the side. "But devil take me," he tossed his whip from one
hand to another, "if his buddy won't pay with his whole hide for Ernie right now ..."

Kumai instinctively blocked the first blow with his elbow, immediately losing a patch
of skin. Roaring with pain, he lunged at the blond man, and then four others joined the fun.
They beat him for a long time, attentively and with a great deal of inventiveness, until it
became clear that further action was useless on the insensible Troll. Well, whaddya think -
someone has to pay for the dead warder or what?

By then the guard chief showed up, yelled: "Enough fun!" and cussed them all back to
their posts - he certainly didn't want another deader on his report. See, the deal here's like
this: if this animal kicks the bucket right here, then he'll have to deal with the master of the
works (a major asshole), but if it happens later, in the barracks, then it's gonna be a 'natural
loss' and no questions asked ... He nodded for the nearest bunch of prisoners who had

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watched the beating fearfully to come over, and a short time later Kumai was sprawled on
rotten straw in his barrack. Anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this half-
corpse covered in tatters of bloody skin was not for this world for much longer. A couple of
months prior the Troll managed to cheat death after heavy injury in the Battle of the
Pelennor Fields, but that seemed to have used up his luck.

When Eomer's riders broke through the South Army's defenses and panic ensued.
Engineer Second Class Kumai was cut off north of the camp, at the siege engine park.
Seven more engineers were bottled up with him; being the senior there, he had to assume
command. Not being an expert on either strategy or tactics, he saw just one thing clearly: in
a few minutes all the abandoned machinery would be captured, so the only thing left was to
destroy it. The Troll established order in his company with an iron hand (one of the seven
who blurted something like "run for your lives!" remained lying senseless by a bunch of
assault ladders) and ascertained that at least they had enough naphtha, the One be praised.
In a minute his subordinates rushed all around like ants, pouring it over the catapults and the
bases of siege towers, while he hurried to the 'gates' - the gap in the ring of wagons
surrounding the park - and ran smack into a forward troop of Rohirrim.

The mounted warriors treated the suddenly appearing lonely Mordorian without due
respect, and paid for it. Kumai was strong even by TroUish standards (once at a student
party he had walked a window ledge with dead-drunk Haladdin slumped in an armchair held
in his outstretched arms), so his weapon of choice right then was a large wagon shaft that
came to hand. Only one of the four riders managed to back off in time; the rest fell where
they met that monstrous spinner.

Even so the Rohirrim were not discouraged much. Six more riders materialized out of
the deepening gloom and formed a semi-circle bristling with spears. Kumai first tried to
block the way with one of the wagons, turning it by the rear axle, but saw that he would not
be in time. Stepping back a little and keeping the enemies in sight, he called over his
shoulder: "Burn it, by damn!"

"We're not done, sir!" someone responded from behind, "the large catapults are still

dry!"

"Fire what you can! The Westerners are here already!" he roared, and then addressed
the battle-ready Rohirrim in Common: "Hey, who's not a coward? Who'll meet this
mountain Troll in honest battle?"

It worked! The rank parted, and a few seconds later a dismounted warrior wearing the
white plumage of a comet stood before him: "Are you ready, fair sir?" Kumai grabbed the
pole by the middle, made a quick forward lunge - and found the Rohir less than two yards
away; the only thing that saved the Troll was that the light Rohan blade could not cut
through the pole which took the brunt of the blow. The engineer hastily backed inside the
park, trying to gain precious seconds, but was unable to break away: the cornet was fleet as a
ferret, and Kumai' s chances with his clumsy weapon were about zero in close quarters.
"Fire and run like hell!" he yelled, seeing clearly that he himself was finished. Indeed, the
next moment the world exploded in a white flash of blinding pain and instantly faded into
comforting darkness. The comet's blow split his helmet clean apart, so he never saw how
the very next second everything around him tumed into a sea of flames - his people did
manage to finish the job . . . A few seconds later the Rohirrim, backing away from the heat,
saw their reckless officer trudge from the depths of that roaring furnace, bent under the

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weight of the unconscious Troll. "What the hell, comet?" "I must know the name of this
fair sir! He's a captive of my spear, after all ..."

Kumai came to only three days later in a Rohani hospital tent, lying side by side with
the three riders he had felled; the steppe warriors made no distinction between the wounded
and treated them all equally. Unfortunately, in this case it meant 'equally bad:' the
engineer's head was in sorry shape, but the only medicine he got during that time was a skin
of wine brought by Cornet Jorgen who had captured him. The cornet voiced hope that once
the Engineer Second Class was healed he would honor him with another fight, preferably
with a weapon more traditional than a pole. Certainly he can be free within the confines of
the camp, on his word as an officer ... However, a week later the Rohirrim left on the
Mordorian campaign, to win the crown of the Reunited Kingdom for Aragorn, and that same
day Kumai and all the other wounded prisoners were sent to the MindoUuin quarry. Unlike
the backward Rohan, Gondor was already a civilized country . . .

How he managed to survive those first hellish days, with a busted head and a
concussion that kept plunging him into pits of unconsciousness, was a total enigma; most
likely it was simply TroUish stubbornness, to spite the jailers. All the same, Kumai had no
illusions regarding his fate. In his time, as required by tradition of well-off TroUish families,
Kumai had followed the entire career path of a worker in his father's mines at Tzagan-Tzab,
from miner to surveyor's assistant. He knew enough about mining to understand that no one
was concerned with economics here; they were sent to MindoUuin to die, rather than earn
the quarry owners some profit. The daily food-to-production-quota ratio for Mordorian
prisoners was such as to be bald-faced 'killing on an installment plan.'

By the third week, when some prisoners were already dead and the others managed to
more or less adapt to this murderous cadence (what else could they do?), an Elvish
inspection team swooped in. What shame, what barbarity! those folks carried on. Isn't it
obvious that these people are capable of a lot more than driving wheel-barrows? There are
plenty of experts in all kinds of trades here - take them and use them properly, damn it! The
Gondorian bosses scratched their heads abashedly: "our bad, your eminences!" and
conducted a skill survey right away. As a result, a few dozen lucky ones traded the hell of
MindoUuin for work in their chosen fields, leaving the quarry forever.

Whatever, the One be their judge ... As for himself, Kumai did not think it proper to
buy his life by building heavier-than-air aircraft for the enemy (that being his trade): some
things are not to be done because they must not be done, period. An escape from
MindoUuin was obviously a pipe dream, and he saw no other ways to get out of there. In the
meantime, undernourishment was doing its work - he became more and more apathetic. It
is hard to say how long he would have lasted in this mode - maybe a week, maybe even six
months (but almost certainly not a year) - were it not for Mbanga, the One rest his soul, who
managed to slam the door on his way out so spectacularly as to also solve all of Kumai 's
problems once and for all.

Chapter 35

Close to evening a stranger visited the Mordorians' barrack where the Engineer
Second Class lay wracked by a consuming fever. He was wiry and quick of movement, his
swarthy Southerner's face marked by decisiveness - most likely an officer off an Umbarian
privateer who by a quirk of fate wound up at MindoUuin rather than dangling off the
yardarm of a royal galley. He stood for a minute over the bloody mess already presided

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over by hordes of fat flies and grumbled to no one in particular: "Yeah, prob'ly a goner by
morning ..." Then he disappeared, only to re-appear a half an hour later and, much to the
surprise of Kumai's fellow inmates, begin treating him. Ordering them to hold the patient
down, he started rubbing a bright-yellow ointment smelling sharply of camphor right into
the weeping welts; the pain was bad enough to jerk Kumai out of wobbly unconsciousness,
and had he not been so weakened, his fellows would not have been able to keep him pinned
down. Pirate (as the prisoners took to calling him) kept working calmly, and just a few
minutes later the wounded man relaxed, melting with copious sweat, and sank into real sleep
like a stone in a pond.

The ointment was truly miraculous: by morning the welts had not only closed but
started itching like crazy - a sure sign of healing. Only a few inflamed, and Pirate, who
showed up before morning call, got to work on those. Kumai, mostly back to life by then,
greeted his savior gloomily:

"I don't want to sound ungrateful, but surely you could' ve found a better use for your
wonderful medicine. What use is saving the one who's going to die soon anyway?"

"Well, a man has to do stupid things from time to time, or stop being a man. Turn a
bit ... yes ... Bear this, engineer, it'll be better soon ... Oh yes, speaking about doing
stupid things. Forgive my curiosity, but why have you stayed to die in this quarry? You
could have been sitting pretty in a royal workshop in Minas Tirith right now."

Kumai grunted: "It's the simple wisdom of prostitutes I've followed all my life: don't
hustle while under a customer ..." and cut himself short when it suddenly occurred to him:
how does this guy know about my trade when I've told no one about it and had concealed it
during that 'skill survey'?

"A commendable stance," nodded Pirate without a shadow of a smile. "The most
interesting thing is that in this case it's also the pragmatically correct one; actually, the only
correct one. You see, all those who have hustled back then are already dead, whereas you
will soon be free, with a bit of luck."

"Dead? How do you know?"

"I buried them myself, that's how. I'm a gravedigger here, you see."

Kumai digested this in silence for some time. The most horrible thing was his first
thought: good riddance! And then: my God, whom did I turn into here? He did not
understand Pirate's next words right away:

"In other words, you made the right choice, mechanic Kumai. As you can see, the
Motherland had not forgotten you and has set up a special operation to save you. I am one
of the participants in this operation."

"How?" He was totally dumbfounded. "What Motherland?"

"What, do you have several?"

"You're crazy! Someone really is ready to sacrifice a bunch of people just to get me
out of here?"

"We are following orders," Pirate answered drily, "and it's not for us to decide what is
more important to Mordor: a spy network that took years to build or a certain Engineer
Second Class."

"I'm sorry ... By the way, somehow I haven't asked your name yet."
"You did right - you have no need to know it. Your escape will begin in a few
minutes, and no matter what happens, we'll never meet again."

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"In a few minutes?! Listen, I'm a lot better now, but hardly enough to . . . how am I
supposed to get past the outer guard?"

"As a corpse, of course. Remember that I serve on the burial detail. Don't worry,
you're neither the first nor the last, knock on wood."

"So all those who were ..."

"Alas, that job was for real. That was Elvish work, there was nothing we could do . . .
Anyway: you will now drink from this bottle and 'die,' to all appearances, for about twelve
hours; after what happened to you yesterday, no one will be the wiser. The rest is technical
details that do not concern you."

"What do you mean, don't concern me?"

"Very simple. I advise you to supplement your wonderful 'don't hustle while under a
customer' principle with another one: 'the less you know, the better you sleep.' Whatever
you need to know you'll know when it's time. Drink, Kumai, time is of the essence."

The liquid in the bottle worked in seconds; the last thing he saw was Pirate's swarthy
face with plenty of tiny scars around the lips.

Kumai never found out what happened later to his 'corpse' (six beats per minute
thready pulse, no visible reactions). Nor was there any reason for him to learn how he rode
the corpse cart under a pile of dead bodies, or how he lay in the nearby abandoned quarry
under a layer of gravel, awaiting transport. He came to in total darkness; everything's in
order - if Pirate was right about the twelve hours, it should be night now. Where am I? A
stable, to judge by the smell . . . The moment he moved, an unfamiliar voice with a hard-to-
place accent spoke:

"Congratulations on your safe arrival. Engineer Second Class! You can relax - the
road ahead is long, but the biggest danger is past."
"Thank you, ah ..."

"Superintendent. Just Superintendent."

"Thank you. Superintendent. That man, back in the quarry ..."

"He's all right. You don't need to know more."

"Can I send him my regards?"

"I doubt it. But I'll report your request."

"Permission to ask a question?"

"Permission granted."

"Am I expected to create new weaponry?"

"Certainly."

"But my specialty is completely different!"

"Do you intend to teach your superiors. Engineer Second Class?"

"No, sir." He hesitated. "I'm just not sure ..."

"But the HQ is sure." The Superintendent's voice thawed a little. "After all, you
won't be working alone. There's a whole team there. Jageddin is the boss."
''The Jageddin?!"
"The very same."
"Not bad ..."

Say what you want, but there is a certain charm in not having much to think about and
just doing what you're told . . .

"So, you just lie there and get better. Were it not for this stupid incident with the
warders, you could' ve gotten started right now, but as it is, we'll have to wait."

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The Last Ringbearer

"You know, I'm well enough to go home, to Mordor, as it is."

The invisible man chuckled: "Why do you think you're going to Mordor?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's very simple, really. You're a wanted man, or at least we're anticipating such an
eventuality; as you've seen, the Elves are very thorough. Whereas you must work, rather
than hide - two very different tasks."

"All right; where, then?"

"Think. What's the best place to stash stolen goods? In a policeman's attic. What's
the darkest spot in a room? Right under the lamp. Get it?"

"You mean to say ..." Kumai said slowly; he felt cold in his gut, because all the pieces
of the wonderful puzzle that was his miraculous escape began to fit into a very different
picture: a clever ruse. "You mean to say that I'm staying here, in Gondor?"

"No. To be honest, it's tempting to hide you in Gondor, nor would it be too difficult
in any other time. We were working on this option, but had to abandon it. The thing is,
right now the King and the Queen are jockeying for position in Minas Tirith; both have their
own secret services which spy on each other, so it would be real easy to attract their
attention purely by accident. So, unfortunately, no local option for us. But the world is not
limited to Gondor and Mordor ... By the way, were it the Reunited Kingdom trying to use
you surrepticiously, they would most likely have sent you to Mordor: between them, the
army and the counter-intelligence service of the victorious nation could have set up an
'ivory tower' for you bar none. Do you agree?"

Silence fell for a couple of seconds.

"Damn! Is it so obvious on my phiz?"

"Without a doubt, although I can't see your phiz in this dark. In other words, let the
experts worry about such things and do the job you know how to do, all right?"
"Please accept my apologies. Superintendent."

"Don't worry about it. As long as we're on the subject: the people you'll be working
with at that 'university' got there in a variety of ways; many are your good friends. You can
discuss anything your heart desires with them - student parties, news of the Resistance,
philosophy - anything but the story of how you got there. Loose talk on the subject can cost
a lot of people their lives - both my colleagues, like our mutual friend in MindoUuin, and
your colleagues still in the hands of the enemy. I say this with utmost seriousness and
responsibility. Do you understand. Engineer Second Class?"

"Yes, Superintendent."

"Very good. Get well soon and move on."

"Congratulations, Mongoose." Cheetah straightened up in his armchair and looked
over the Secret Guard lieutenant standing at attention. "I have examined your report on
Operation Mockingbird. Six men rescued - great job. The Service thanks you."

"His Majesty's servant, sir!"

"At ease. Lieutenant. Sit down, this is no parade ground. So the retreat from
MindoUuin happened under the emergency option?"

"Yes, sir. The last man I've watched - engineer Kumai, number thirty-six on our list,
designer of mechanical dragons - got into a stupid mess the day before the planned escape.
The local warders turned him into chopped Uver, and I had to fix him up real fast; to be
honest, first I thought that there was no hope. I did save and extract him, but this completely

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exposed me: the snitches reported the healing, and ... In other words, your boys from the
backup team showed up just in time."

"Yeah," Cheetah grumbled and looked at the shabby walls of the safe house with
obvious disgust, "quite in time ... Two dead, three wounded. Her Majesty's entire Secret
Service is frantically looking for a Mordorian spy: a swarthy man with small scars around
the mouth. Meanwhile, the police is searching for an escaped convict of the same
description ... 1 think, Lieutenant, that it's high time you changed climates; get packing to
go South, to work in Umbar."

"Yes, Captain, sir!"

"Here, examine this dossier. Baron Tangorn, Faramir's Umbarian resident before the
war. We have reasons to believe that he is doing the same thing we are doing - looking for
Mordorian experts and documents for his prince; there are indications that soon he'll show
up in Umbar. Your task is to capture Tangorn and pry all the information concerning this
Ithilienian venture out of him. His Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional
importance."

"May 1 treat him harshly to obtain this information?"

"It won't work in any other way; judging by this dossier, the baron is not the kind to
buy his life with the secrets he's been trusted with. In any case he'll have to be disposed of
after the interrogation, since we're formally allied with Ithilien, so this whole story must not
become known."

"How will he come to Umbar - in an official capacity or? . . ."

"Most likely 'or.' You have an important advantage: it appears that Tangorn doesn't
yet know that he's being hunted. He may even stay openly in a local hotel, at least at first,
and then his capture will not be a problem. But the baron is an old hand; if he detects
anything amiss, he'll disappear in that city like a frog in a pond."

"Understood. Will 1 operate independently, alone?"

"Independently, but not alone. You'll have three sergeants - choose them yourself,
out of our people. If you find him quick, that should be more than enough. But if you spook
him..."

"That can't happen, Captain, sir!"

"Anything can happen to anyone," Cheetah responded irritably, involuntarily glancing
at his foot. "Anyway, while searching in the city you may not ask the local station for help,
which is a great pity: they have a boatload of manpower, and, more importantly, excellent
contacts in the local police . . ."

"May 1 know why?"

"Because we have information that the Elves are very active in Umbar and there's a
strong pro-Elvish underground there. Under no circumstances may Lorien find out about
your operation - this is the strictest order - and I'm concerned with leaks: our people are in
the shortest supply, and, regrettably, all the resident spies in Umbar are regular people ..."
Cheetah hesitated a little and finished in a humdrum sort of tone: "You will carry a Form Y
mandate, just in case."

Mongoose looked up at the captain, as if to confirm what he heard. So this is what
'His Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional importance' means! A Y mandate
allowed a member of the Secret Service to act in the name of the King. In overseas
operations this can be necessary for only two reasons: to give a direct order to the
ambassador, or to depose (or eliminate on the spot) the local station chief . . .

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Part III - The Umbarian Gambit

He was a self-made counter-terrorist, "part soldier, part copper, part villain," as he liked to say,
and he belonged to the fabled generation of his trade. He had hunted Communists in Malaya
and Mau Mau in Kenya, Jews in Palestine, Arabs in Aden, and the Irish everywhere.
John LeCarre

Chapter 36

Umbar, the Fish Market
June 2, 3019

The shrimp were excellent. They sat on the tin plate like battle-ready triremes on the
dim morning surface of the Barangar Bay: spiky rostrums in the tangle of rigging (feelers)
threatening the enemy, oars (legs) hugging the body, just like they should in preparation for
boarding. Half a dozen per portion - can't really handle any more of these genuinely 'royal'
shrimp that barely fit in the palm; besides, the tangy juice that gave such a charm to the
sweetish pink flesh was biting his out-of-practice lips and fingertips. Tangorn glanced at the
awaiting tray of large ember-baked oysters: the conical mossy stones had split a bit along the
seam from the heat, shyly exposing their swarthy contents; the effect was charmingly
obscene. Say what you want, but nowhere in the world can they prepare seafood like they
can in the small taverns around the Fish Market, not even at the fashionable restaurants on
the Three Stars Embankment! Pity the sea slugs are not in season ... He sighed and again
tackled the dripping piquant juicy shrimp, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's
chatter.

"... surely you can agree. Baron: your countries are just a tiny peninsula on the far

north-west of Arda that's way overestimating its importance. Moreover, it's inhabited by
paranoiacs who have convinced themselves that the rest of the world can think of nothing
else but how to conquer and enslave them. Please! Who the hell needs those sickly
toadstool-studded copses, the snows that don't melt for half a year, or that foamy brown
sourwater you drink instead of wine?"

Not that this fop's elocutions insulted Tangorn' s patriotic sentiments (especially since
most of what he said was true), but such statements sounded very strange coming from a
high-placed official of the Foreign Ministry of the Republic of Umbar; particularly so
considering that their meeting was the official's idea. The baron was not very surprised
when that morning the appropriately obsequious proprietor of the Lucky Anchor hotel where
he was staying had handed him an envelope plastered all over with assorted state seals.
Well, it has been three days since he had showed up in Umbar, where he had surely left -
how shall we put it? - an ambiguous but indisputably colorful impression; it was quite
natural for the Assistant State Secretary Gagano (at the urging of Alkabir, chief of the
Foreign Ministry's Northern section) to request a confidential meeting with the guest from
Ithilien. As a result, Tangorn has been 'considering' this idiot's rude diatribes for a good
quarter of an hour . . . Stop! he told himself; is he really such an idiot as he pretends to be?
Let's feel him out ... try something innocuous.

"Well, 'a tiny peninsula that's way overestimating its importance' - that's pretty well
said," the baron acknowledged good-naturedly, "but I have to contest the last point of your
indictment, regarding 'brown sourwater.' Believe it or not, not half a minute ago I was
thinking about how nice it'd be to pair a couple of pints of our good old bitter with these

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shrimp! One that's black and sour like pitch, with foam thick enough to hold up a small
coin ..." He smiled dreamily and gestured at the other man with tired condescension.
"Mister Assistant State Secretary, you simply can't imagine a real Gondorian bitter. The
first, longest swallow leaves a vanishing aftertaste of smoke on your tongue, like what you
can smell in a park when they bum last year's leaves in the spring; not for naught is it called
smoked beer ..."

Mister Assistant State Secretary responded to the effect that he knew his beers no
worse than the natives, having worked in the Northern section for many years; he was
likewise conversant with all kinds of seal blubber so prized by the Lossoth inhabiting the
banks of the Bay of Forochel. Yeah ... many years in the Northern section, right. It's no
crime to deeply despise foreigners, but why demonstrate those feelings to them so brazenly?
And as for the fact that the archaically top-fermented bitters and stouts have not been
brewed outside of Eriador for the last hundred years, and that the famous Shire smoked beer
is not even a bitter, but a lager made with specially caramelized malt - no, a professional has
no right not to know such things about a country he's supposed to work with! Say what you
want, but the exceedingly smart and meticulous Alkabir has strange employees these days.

So why did they want to meet him? First guess: to get him out of his hotel room in
order to check his luggage for messages, letters of introduction, and such. Well, such cheap
tricks would be in style for the dumb boy scouts from the Gondorian station, but the
Umbarian Secret Service, as far as he could remember, worked in much subtler ways.
Second guess: Alkabir is letting him know on behalf of the Foreign Ministry that the
Republic has abandoned its centuries-old practice of temporary alliances balancing opposing
forces, and has decided to surrender to the strongest - that'd be Gondor - and therefore it is
pointedly refusing meaningful contact with the Ithilien emissary (undoubtedly that's who
they think he is). Third guess, the most likely one: Alkabir is letting him know that while
the Republic had indeed abandoned the said centuries-old practice, there are powerful forces
that disagree with this decision, and the 'Ithilien emissary' should deal with them rather than
with the Foreign Ministry and other official channels, which the pompous ass Gagano is
supposed to personify. The point is that regardless of which of these guesses is correct, it's
not the right time to go to the Blue Palace waving his diplomatic papers (had he actually had
any). Here Tangom had to laugh: so I don't believe that Alkabir sent Gagano without his
choice being a hidden message, while Alkabir doesn't believe that I really am retired and not
Faramir's fully empowered representative, however unofficial. Both of these pictures,
though resting as they do on fairly tenuous assumptions, are internally consistent, so it's not
entirely clear which facts might convince either one of us otherwise . . .

"What's so funny. Baron?" the Assistant State Secretary inquired haughtily.

"Nothing much, just an amusing thought . . . Anyway, we've gone on talking for a bit
too long, you're probably expected back at the office. A humble traveler such as myself
shouldn't distract such an important person for so long. Thank you so much for the edifying
conversation. And, if it's not too much trouble, please convey the following to dearest
Alkabir - literally, please, with nothing added - I have fully appreciated his decision to
appoint specifically Assistant State Secretary Gagano to conduct talks with me, but I'm
afraid that the guys over at 12 Shore Street are too plain and simple to appreciate such
subtleties ..."

Tangom cut himself short because at the mention of the Gondorian embassy his
interlocutor glanced around furtively (as if expecting to find a couple of His Majesty's

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Secret Guards in full parade black uniforms at the nearest table, their torture instruments
arranged right there on the tablecloth) and dashed for the exit, mumbling excuses. A solitary
gentleman of merchant appearance thoughtfully consuming sea urchin eggs at a nearby table
looked up at the baron, his face an appropriate mixture of confusion, uncertainty, and alarm.
Tangom smiled back, nodded at the receding State Secretary and quite sincerely shrugged
and sadly twirled a finger next to his temple. Then he pulled the cooling oyster plate close
(why waste good food?), expertly extracted the moUusk from its apparently impregnable
fortress, and lost himself in thought.

The grand mansion on Shore Street that now housed the Reunited Kingdom's embassy
(although it would have been more appropriate to label it the Umbar branch of the Secret
Guard) deservedly had the most ominous reputation among the citizenry. Minas Tirith
considered the imminent annexation of Umbar a done deal, calling it nothing but 'a pirate
haven on the ancestral lands of South Gondor.' The ambassador was readying himself to
become the governor without much ado, while the people of the spy station already behaved
like they owned the place. They called themselves 'spies' although in reality they were
nothing but a band of thugs; looking at them, Tangom felt like a noble bandit of the classic
school next to a gang of underage punks. People disappearing and torture-disfigured
corpses surfacing in the canals were now commonplace; until recently the Umbarians could
console themselves that the victims were mostly Mordorian immigrants, but a recent
assassination attempt on the famous Admiral Carnero dispelled those illusions.

In other words, Aragorn's embassy was a formidable institution, no doubt about that,
but that its mere mention would so scare a high-ranking official during performance of his
duties ... no, something's off here. Unless ... unless this dope works for the Gondorians!
Aha! So he thought that I've figured him out and would turn him in. Man, that was a
propitious joke, pure fool's luck! But Aragorn's men's nerves are in bad shape for some
reason. I wonder where I could actually turn in a traitor in this city, where the police is
either solidly bought or else scared spitless, while the Gondorian embassy could issue direct
orders to administration officials if it so wished? Of course, there's also the local secret
service and the military, but amazingly those, too, are behaving as if nothing going on has
anything to do with them . . . Whatever, to hell with this Gagano, I have quite a few of my
own problems now! That my modest person is now of interest to the Gondorian spies is bad
enough.

What the devil! he thought, sipping suddenly tasteless wine. Why do they all think
that I'm here with the mandate of an ambassador plenipotentiary of the Princedom of
Ithilien sewn into my pants, and a defense treaty to offer? All right, suppose that my
countrymen are merely giving me a gentle warning not to contact the Republic's authorities
officially. I'm willing to abide by this warning religiously, seeing as how it doesn't impede
my actual plans. Damn, wouldn't it be lovely to let them all know the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth: guys, I really am not interested in getting involved in the Gondor-
Umbar mess! I have a totally different job: to establish real contact with the Elvish
clandestine structures here in under three weeks, knowing nothing but a single name we got
from Eloar' s letter - Elandar . . .

Tangorn finished his wine, tossed his last Umbarian silver coin bearing Castamir's
haughty profile on the table (Sharya-Rana gave them the locations of several secret money
caches, but he avoided paying with gold dungans of Mordor) and headed for the exit,
limping slightly. The sea urchin connoisseur at the nearby table has also finished his meal

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and unhurriedly wiped first his fingers and then his lips (thin and slightly puckered with a
multitude of tiny scars around them) with a handkerchief - attentionl Three sailors were
concentrating on their clam chowder at the table right next to the door; one of them casually
moved an open bottle of Barangar red to the edge of the table - ready\ Tangom would
reach the tavern door in six or seven seconds, which was all the time that Lieutenant
Mongoose of the Secret Guard had to decide whether to improvise and capture the baron
right now or stick to the original carefully worked out plan. Who would have thought that
his agent Gagano would blow it so stupidly?

All he had to do was transparently hint to Tangom in the name of the Foreign Ministry
that his official accreditation would be untimely (the lieutenant had absolutely no desire to
abduct a diplomat of a foreign and nominally allied state); the assistant state secretary
managed that quite well. Unfortunately, he was cowardly (even his recruitment was
accomplished with blackmail over really trivial matters), so Mongoose's demand that he
keep this assignment secret from his case officer at the station plunged the Umbarian into
utter dread. He knew very well that at 12 Shore Street they would judge such 'forgetfulness'
as double-dealing, with appropriate consequences. Gagano shuddered with fear at the mere
thought of either of his Gondorian masters, and so fell apart after Tangom' s shot in the dark.

No, Mongoose said to himself, don't jump at it. Nothing terrible has happened yet.
Yes, the baron had surely figured out that his interlocutor is connected to Gondorian spies,
but most likely he will interpret that as Minas Tirith's desire to curtail Emyn Amen's
diplomatic activity ... All right, we'll let him go and stick to the original plan. The
lieutenant put the handkerchief back in his pocket - rather than drop it on the table - and
Tangom went past the sailors at the door without a hindrance. He mixed with the street
crowds and unhurriedly headed to the waterfront; he checked for surveillance twice but saw
none.

Indeed, there was none: Mongoose took the sane view that right then it was most
important not to spook their quarry. In just a few hours their preparation for the operation
will be complete with the final touch of getting two genuine Umbar police uniforms. This
very evening a police detail will visit the Lucky Anchor hotel, present Tangorn with a
properly executed warrant and ask him to come to the local station to testify . . . and they
will not let the baron die before he tells them everything he knows about the Ithilienian
intelligence service's accomplishments in the hunt for Mordorian technology.

Chapter 37

Probably no one will ever know when people started settling on this long mountainous
peninsula and the flat swampy islands of the lagoon it encloses. In any event, while the
inhabitants of the Reunited Kingdom do not utter the word 'Numenor' without a reverential
sigh, a gaze at the sky, and an upraised index finger, the Umbarians sincerely scratch their
heads: "Numenorians? Man, who can remember all those barbarians! Have you any idea
how many of them we've seen around here?" Two circumstances have determined Umbar' s
fate as a great sea power: an excellent sheltered harbor and the fact that the highest point of
the peninsula is 5,356 feet above sea level; these are the only real mountains on the entire
coast south of Anduin. In these arid latitudes 'mountains' spell 'forests,' 'forests' spell
'ships,' and 'ships' spell 'sea trade,' which organically blends with privateering and - let's
be honest - plain piracy. Add to that a fantastically advantageous location in the middle of

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everything: it is a true World's crossroads, an ideal transit point for trade, and the terminus
of the caravan routes from the Eastern countries.

A solid line of defensive works on the Chevelgar isthmus joining the peninsula to the
mainland plus a superb navy to guard against enemy landings made Umbar totally
unassailable, which makes its being constantly conquered by all and sundry very puzzling.
To be more precise, every time an attack loomed the Umbarians averted action by
acknowledging the sovereignty of whatever continental power it was this time and paying
tribute, quite sanely figuring that a war, even a victorious one, would cost their trade
republic a lot more in all respects. Their attitude can be likened to that of a businessman
who pays 'protection money' to a racketeer with neither pleasure nor undue upset, building
this expense into his prices; he cares not a whit which criminal cartel his 'partners' belong
to, but only that they do not stage gunfights next to his store.

On the mainland long sieges followed awesome battles; storied kings (ever concerned
with winning new lands rather than wisely governing those they already had) were tempted
time and again to order their finance ministers beheaded for daring to interrupt the grandiose
flights of royal fancy with their pedestrian: "The treasury is empty, sire, and the army hasn't
been paid since last September!" - in other words, life went on. In the meantime, behind the
Chevelgar fortifications the Umbarians kept beautifying their swampy islands, joining them
with dams and bridges and splitting them with canals. The mega polls that rose from the
azure waters of the lagoon was rightly considered the most beautiful city in all Middle Earth:
its merchants and bankers swam in money, so for four centuries and counting the best
architects and sculptors have labored here from dawn to dusk.

In the last three hundred years or so Umbar got powerful enough to eschew paying
tribute to anyone. An absolute sea power, it turned instead to a tactic of temporary
defensive alliances - now with Mordor against Gondor, then with Gondor against Mordor,
then again with Khand against both of the above. Last year, though, the situation changed
drastically: Mordor sank into oblivion (not without Umbar helping by supplying Aragom
with a landing fleet at the crucial moment, so as to get rid of a caravan trade competitor for
good), Khand was being torn apart by a religious civil war and had lost all influence in the
seashore regions, while a new threat arose in the South, one with which there was no dicker
- the Haradrim. As a result, the Republic faced a Hobson's choice between southern
savages and northern barbarians. The Senate chose the latter, hoping to hide from the
Haradi invasion behind Aragom' s swords, although it was crystal clear that this time the
protection price would be direct occupation of the tiny country by its 'great northern
neighbor.' No few citizens were of the opinion that Umbarian independence and civil
liberties were quite worth defending with their lives.

Most denizens of the city, though, never dwelled on these sad matters, or at least tried
hard not to. Happy cosmopolitan Umbar with its gauche and intimately corrupt authorities
led its usual life of the World's Crossroads. It had active temples of all three major and
scores of minor religions, while a merchant from anywhere could celebrate a deal in a
restaurant of his national cuisine. Here information was gathered, traded, and stolen by
diplomats and spies from countries no one in the Reunited Kingdom had ever heard of, and
who in their turn cared nothing for the snowy outback beyond the Anduin. Here one could
find any merchandise ever produced by the Arda's soil, water, or mines, or created by the
minds and hands of its inhabitants: from exotic fruits to rarest medicines and drugs, from a
magnificent platinum tiara encrusted with famous Vendotenian emeralds to a Mordorian

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scimitar that can split stone and then be wrapped around your waist like a belt, from
oversized fossilized teeth (supposedly dragon's and magical) to manuscripts in dead
languages. (Consider the popular joke: "Does the Ring of Power really exist? No, else it
could have been bought in an Umbar market.") And how did blood mix here, what fantastic
beauties surfaced regularly from this universal melting pot! In any case, on his way from
the Fish Market to the Three Stars Embankment Tangom had counted at least half a dozen
such knock-me-down-with-a-feather lovelies.

Once there he stopped by a familiar dugout bar to drink some of his favorite Golden
Muscat. Its sweetness and tartness balance each other so perfectly that the taste seems to
disappear altogether and the wine turns into materialized aroma, seemingly simple and even
somewhat crude, but in reality weaved from a multitude of shades - multiple meanings and
hints. Let some of it linger on your tongue, and you will see the topaz berries warm with the
afternoon sun, slightly sprinkled with limestone dust, and the blindingly white path through
the vineyard, and then the enthralling Umbarian six-line verses - takatos - will begin
creating themselves right out of the noon haze . . .

It's strange, really, he thought while climbing up the chipped stairs out of the cool
gloom of the dugout (another check - still no tail), it's strange but he used to believe that
fully appreciating the taste of this magic drink would lead him to a full understanding of the
soul of the city where it was born. Umbar - the wonderful, damned, tender, fickle, mocking,
depraved, ever avoiding real intimacy Umbar ... A bitch of unbelievable beauty and charm
who gave you a love potion to drink, precisely so she could then openly flirt with all and
sundry in your full view, leaving you the choice of either killing her or accepting her as she
was. He chose the latter, and now, back after a four-year absence, knew with complete
certainty: baron Tangom' s Gondorian phase was nothing but a prolonged misunderstanding,
for his real home is here . . .

He stopped by the parapet, leaned on the warm pinkish limestone, swept his gaze over
the majestic view of both of Umbar' s bays - Kharmian and Barangar - and suddenly
realized: this was the very place where he met baron Grager on his first day in Umbar! The
resident spy listened to Tangom' s introduction and declared coldly: "I don't give a damn for
Faramir's recommendations! Young man, I won't give you any real work for at least six
months. By then you must know the city better than the police, speak both local languages
without an accent, and have acquaintances in all strata of society - from criminals to
senators. That's just for starters. If you fail, you can go home and do literary translations,
you're pretty good at it." Truly, what goes around, comes around . . .

Did he manage to become a local? That doesn't seem possible ... Be that as it may,
he learned to write takatos well appreciated by connoisseurs, to understand ship rigging, and
to easily converse with Kharmian smugglers in their gaudy patois. Even now he can guide a
gondola through the maze of Old City canals with his eyes closed; he still remembers a
dozen open-ended courtyards and other such places where one can lose a tail even when
openly stalked by a large team ... He had weaved a pretty decent agent network here, and
then he had Alviss - this city held no secrets from her . . . Or, perhaps, she had him?

Alviss was the most glamorous of the Umbar courtesans. From her Belfalas mother
who kept a humble port brothel called The Siren 's Kiss she had inherited sapphire eyes and
hair the color of light copper that instantly drove any Southerner crazy; from her father - a
corsair skipper who wound up on a yardarm when the girl was barely a year old - a man's
mind, an independent character, and a penchant for well-considered gambles. This

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combination of qualities enabled her to rise from the port hovels of her birth to her own
mansion on Jasper Street, where her receptions attracted the cream of the Republic's elite.
Alviss' outfits regularly caused major indigestion in wives and official mistresses of high
officials, while her body was the model for three large canvases and the cause of a dozen
duels. A night with her cost either a fortune or nothing but a trifle like a well-dedicated
poem.

That was precisely how it happened with Tangom, who dropped by her salon once (he
had to establish contact with the secretary of the Khand embassy, who was a regular). When
the guests started to leave, the beauty confronted the funny northern barbarian and said with
indignation belied by sparkles of laughter in her eyes:

"Rumor has it. Baron, that you claimed my hair is dyed!" Tangom opened his mouth
to deny this monstrous lie, but realized immediately that this was not what was expected of
him. "I assure you that I'm a natural blond. Would you like to confirm that?"

"What, right now?"

"Sure, when else?" Taking his arm, she marched from the living room to the inner
chambers, purring: "Let's find out if you're as good in bed as you are on the dance floor . . ."

It turned out that he was even better. By morning Alviss had signed an unconditional
surrender pact to which she stuck quite well over the years that followed. As for Tangom, at
first it seemed nothing more than an exciting adventure to him; the baron realized that this
woman had stealthily taken up more of his heart than he could afford only when she
bestowed her characteristically generous attentions on Senator Loano's young son - an
empty-headed pretty boy fond of writing sickeningly sweet verses. The duel that followed
made the whole city laugh (the baron inflicted blows with the flat of his sword, using it as a
club, so the youngster got away with only a set of mighty bruises and a concussion), made
Grager furious, and totally confused the Umbarian secret service: a spy has no right to
behave thusly! Tangorn took the dmbbing from the chief indifferently and asked only to be
immediately reassigned away from Umbar - to Khand, say.

Somehow he had no consistent memories of the year he spent in Khand: only the sun-
bleached adobe walls, windowless like the forever veiled faces of the local women; the
smell of overheated cotton oil, the taste of bland flatbreads (the moment they cool they
resemble mortar in both taste and texture), and the incessant whine of the zuma over it all,
like the maddening buzz of a giant mosquito. The baron tried forgetting Alviss by losing
himself in work - he found out that the syrupy caresses of the local beauties could not do
that. Strangely, he did not connect Grager' s sudden order to return to Umbar to his reports.
However, it tumed out that one of the ideas he had mentioned in passing (to analyze actual
trade volume between Mordor and the other countries beyond Anduin) seemed so promising
to Grager that the latter decided to pursue it himself right there, in Khand. To Tangom' s
complete amazement Grager appointed him station chief in Umbar: "Sorry, but there's no
one else available; besides, you know how they say here in the South: to leam to swim, you
gotta swim."

The day after his retum a woman wearing an opaque Khand burka found him,
gracefully turned up the veil and said with a shy smile that astounded him: "Hello, Tan . . .
You'll laugh, but I've waited for you all this time. I'll wait more if 1 have to."

"Really? You must've devoted yourself to serving Valya-Vekte," he scoffed, trying
desperately to emerge from those damn sapphire depths.

"Valya-Vekte?"

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"If I'm not mistaken, she's the goddess of virginity in the Aritanian pantheon, right?
The Aritanian temple is only three blocks from your house, so this service won't be too
burdensome ..."

"That's not what I mean," Alviss shrugged. "Sure, I've slept with a bunch of people
this past year, but that was just work, nothing else." Then she looked straight at him and

fired a broadside: "But you know, Tan, you shouldn't have any illusions that the so-called
decent folks would think your work any less shameful than mine - I mean your real work
here."

He digested this silently for some time, and then found strength to laugh: "Yeah, you
got me to rights, Aly!" With those words he put his hands on her waist, as if about to spin
her in a dance: "And let them all go to hell!"

She smiled sadly: "I've got nothing to do with it; nor have you . . . It's just that we're
sentenced to each other, and there's nothing to be done about it."

It was God's honest truth. They parted numerous times, sometimes for a long time,
but then always started from the same place. She greeted him differently on his return:
sometimes one look of hers chilled the room with an inch of hoarfrost; sometimes it seemed
that Arda split to its very hidden core and a searing protuberance of the Eternal Fire sprang
forth; sometimes she simply stroked his cheek with a sigh: "Come in. You look thin; want
to eat something?" - a model housewife welcoming her husband after a routine business
trip. Both of them understood with absolute clarity that each of them carried a lethal dose of
poison in their veins and only the other had an antidote, a temporary one at that.

Chapter 38

Of course, Tangorn's life in Umbar was not limited to travails of love. It should be
noted that the baron's professional responsibilities left a certain imprint on his relationship
with Alviss. Since she let him know that she was aware of the true nature of his business, at
first the baron thought that his girlfriend was somehow connected to the Umbarian secret
service. He learned otherwise in a fairly aggravating manner, when twice he planted on her
some information meant for his 'colleagues' and twice it went nowhere; the second time the
mix-up almost cost him a well-designed operation.

"Aly, do you think your secret service has so little interest in me that they haven't
even asked you to keep tabs on me?"

"Of course they've asked me, right after you came back. And left empty-handed."

"You must have had problems ..."

"Nothing serious. Tan, forget about it, please!"

"Maybe you should' ve agreed, at least for show."

"No. I don't want to do it, not even for show. You see, to inform on a loved one, one
has to be a highly moral individual with an ingrained sense of civic duty. But I'm just a
whore who knows nothing of those things . . . Let's not talk about this anymore, all right?"

This discovery gave the baron the idea to use Alviss' vast connections for his own data
gathering - not of the secret kind (God forbid!), but public information. He and Grager
were most interested not in the new generation of warships being built at the Republic's
shipyards or the recipe of the 'Umbarian fire' (a mysterious flammable liquid used to great
effect during sieges and sea battles), but rather in such mundane matters as caravan trade
volumes and price fluctuations on the food markets of Umbar and Barad-diir. Another keen
interest of the baron's were the technological advances that more and more defined the

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civilization of Mordor, which he had always sincerely admired. Amazingly, it was
Faramir's semi-amateurish team (whose members, it should be mentioned, were not in state
service and received not a dime from the Gondorian treasury during all these years) that had
intuitively arrived at the style that intelligence services have only widely adopted in our
days. It is well known that these days it is not the swashbuckling secret agents toting micro-
cameras and noise-suppressed pistols who obtain the most valuable intelligence information,
but rather analysts diligently combing newspapers, stock market reports, and other openly
available sources.

While Tangom, on Alviss' advice, perused the activities of Umbarian financiers (the
magic of the White Council was a child's game in comparison), Grager became a second-
guild merchant named Algoran and founded a company in Khand to export olive oil to
Mordor in exchange for products of high technology. The trading house Algoran & Co.
prospered: with its hand always on the pulse of the local agricultural markets, the firm kept
increasing its share of exports to Mordor imports and even managed to comer the market for
dates for a while. The head of the company avoided visiting his Barad-diir branch (having
no reason to believe that Mordor' s counterintelligence service was staffed with incompetent
fools), but his position did not require that: the commander's place is not in the front ranks
but on a nearby hill.

The result of all this activity was a twelve -page document that historians now call
'Grager' s memorandum.' Putting together the rising profit margins of the caravan trade (as
it was followed by the stock and commodity exchanges in Umbar and Barad-diir), the
introduction of a number of protectionist bills in the Mordorian parliament by the agrarian
lobby (a reaction to the sharp increase in local growing costs), and a good dozen of other
factors, Grager and Tangorn proved conclusively that import-reliant Mordor was incapable
of waging prolonged war. Being totally dependent on caravan trade with its neighbors (an
activity totally incompatible with war), it was concerned with peace and stability in the
region more than anyone else, and therefore posed no danger to Gondor. On the other hand,
the safety of trade routes was a matter of life and death to Mordor, making it likely to react
harshly and perhaps not too judiciously to any threat to these. The spies concluded: "Should
anyone wish to force Mordor into a war, it would be very easy to accomplish by terrorizing
caravans on the Ithilien Highway."

Faramir took these conclusions to a special session of the Royal Council in another of
his attempts to prove, facts in hand, that the much-belabored 'Mordorian threat' was nothing
but a myth. The Council, as usual, listened respectfully, understood not a blessed thing, and
ruled on the matter by addressing the prince with its by now familiar litany of reprimands
and instructions. These boiled down to two points: "gentlemen don't read each other's
mail" and "your spies have gotten lazy and do no real work." Thereafter Grager' s
memorandum was sent to the archives, where it gathered dust with the Faramir intelligence
service's other reports until catching the eye of Gandalf during a visit to Minas Tirith . . .

When the war began exactly by their script, Tangorn realized with horror that it was
all his doing.

"... 'The World is Text,' eh, man - just the way you like it. What's your problem?"
Grager smirked woodenly, pouring yet another shot of either tequila or some other
moonshine with an unsteady hand.

"But we wrote a different Text, you and I, totally different!"

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"Whaddya mean - different? My dear aesthete, a text exists only in its interaction
with a reader. Everyone writes their own story of Princess AUandale, and whatever Alrufin
himself wanted to say is absolutely irrelevant. Looks like we managed to create a real work
of art, since the readers," the resident spy waved a finger near his ear, so it was impossible to
say whether he meant the Royal Council or some really Higher Powers, "managed to read it
in this rather unexpected way."

"We betrayed them ... We got played like little kids, but that's no excuse - we
betrayed them ..." Tangorn repeated, staring numbly into the murky opalescent depths of his
glass.

"Yep - it's no excuse . . . Another one?"

He could not figure out which day of their binge it was - not considering themselves
in any service any more, they did not keep track. They started the day the head of the
trading house Algoran & Co. heard of the war and raced to Umbar, running down several
horses, and learned the details from him. Strangely, they more or less held up when apart,
but now, looking each other in the eye, they recognized clearly and at once - this was the
end of all they held dear, and they have destroyed it with their own hands. Two well-
meaning idiots ... Then there was the nightmarish nauseating hung-over dawn when he
awoke because Grager unceremoniously poured a pitcher of ice-cold water over him.
Grager looked his usual self, quick and sure-footed, so his bloodshot eyes and several days'
growth of beard seemed a part of some not too successful disguise.

"Up!" he informed drily. "We're in business again. We've been summoned to Minas
Tirith to brief the Royal Council on the possibilities of a separate peace with Mordor.
Immediately and with utmost secrecy, of course ... Hot damn, maybe we can still fix
something! His Majesty Denethor is a practical enough ruler; looks like he, too, needs this
war like a fish needs an umbrella."

They worked on their document for three days straight with almost no sleep or food,
running on coffee alone, investing all their souls and all their expertise into it - they had no
right to a second mistake. It was a true masterpiece: a meld of incontrovertible logic and
inerrant intuition based on intimate knowledge of the East and expressed in brilliant literary
language capable of touching every heart; it was the road to peace with an exhaustive
description of the dangers and traps lining that road. On his way to the port Tangorn found a
minute to drop in on Alviss: "I'm going to Gondor, but only for a short while, so don't feel
lonely!"

She went white and said almost inaudibly: "You're going to war. Tan. We're
separating for a long time, most likely forever . . . could you not make a proper farewell, at
least?"

"What're you talking about, Aly?" He was sincerely puzzled. He hesitated for a
couple of seconds, then decided to breach security: "To be honest, I'm going there to stop
this stupid war. In any case I hate it and I swear by the halls of Valinor - I'm not about to
play those games!"

"You're going to war," she repeated despondently, "I know that for sure. I'll be
praying for you . . . Please go now, don't look at me when I'm like this."

When their ship had passed the gloomy stormy shores of South Gondor and entered
the Anduin delta, Grager muttered through clenched teeth: "Picture this: we show up in
Minas Tirith and they stare at us: 'Who are you guys? What royal summons - are you
crazy? It must be some joke, nobody called for or is expecting you."

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But it was no joke. Indeed, they were impatiently expected right at the Pelargir pier:
"Baron Grager? Baron Tangorn? You're under arrest."

Only their own could have taken the two best spies of the West so easily.

Chapter 39

"Now tell us, Baron, exactly how you sold the Motherland over there, in Umbar."
"Maybe I'd sell it, on sober reflection, but who the hell would buy such a
motheriand?"

"Let the record reflect: suspect Tangorn admits planning to switch to the enemy's side
and didn't do it only because of circumstances beyond his control."

"Yeah, that's it: maybe he was planning something, but didn't manage to do anything.
Put it down like that."

"Just the documents you brought are enough to have you drawn and quartered - all
those 'overtures of peace' !"

"They were written at the direct order of the Royal Council."

"We've heard this fairy tale already. Can you show us this order?"

"Dammit, I must have calluses on my tongue already from telling you: it was f-
marked, and such documents are to be destroyed after reading!"

"Gentlemen, I do believe it's beneath us to plumb the customs of thieves and spies ..."

This charade has been dragging on for two weeks already. Not that the spies' guilt or
their impending sentence were in any doubt on either side; it was just that Gondor had the
rule of law. This meant that a person out of favor could not be simply sent to the gallows
with only a flick of the royal wrist; proper formalities had to be observed. Most importantly,
Tangorn never had a feeling that what was happening was unfair. That traitorous feeling
had sometimes undone many brave and straight-thinking individuals, causing them to write
useless and demeaning pleas to the authorities. The spies were about to be executed not in
error or on a false report, but precisely for what they did do - for trying to stop a useless war
their country did not need; everything was honest and above board and no one was to blame.
So when Tangorn was roused from his cot one night ("Out, with your possessions!"), he did
not know what to think.

In the prison office he and Grager saw the Chief Warden of the Pelargir prison and
Prince Faramir, dressed in the field fatigues of a regiment unknown to them. The Warden
was glum and perplexed; clearly, he was being forced to make some very unpleasant
decision.

"Can you read?" the prince was inquiring coldly.
"But your order ..."

"Not mine - the Royal order!"

"Yes, sir, the Royal order! Well, it says here that you're forming a special volunteer
regiment for especially dangerous operations behind enemy lines and are empowered to
recruit criminals, like it says here, 'even right off the gallows.' But it doesn't say that this
includes people charged with treason and collaboration with the enemy!"

"Nor does it say the opposite. What's not forbidden is permitted."

"Yes, sir, strictly speaking that's true." From the fact that a mere prison warden was
addressing the heir to the throne of Gondor simply as 'sir,' rather than 'Your Highness,'
Tangorn concluded that the prince's fortunes were in real bad shape. "But that's an obvious
oversight! After all, I have a responsibility .. . in time of war .. . Motherland's safety ..."

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The official perked up a bit, having found something to fall back on at last. "In other words,
I can't permit this without a written approval."

"Certainly we must not blindly follow the letter of our instructions in those trying
times - we must confirm it with our patriotic sense . . . You're a patriot, as I can see, right?"

"Yes, sir . . . I mean Your Highness! I'm glad you understand my motivation . . ."

"Now listen closely, you prison rat," the prince continued in the same tone of voice.
"Pay attention to my mandate, paragraph four. Not only can I accept serfs, criminals, and
such as volunteers; I can draft, in the name of the King, the officials of all military-related
institutions, of which yours is one. So: I will leave here either with those two, or with you,
and - by the arrows of Orome! - there, beyond Osgiliath, you'll have plenty of opportunities
to prove your patriotism! Which is it going to be?"

They embraced only when the prison walls were far behind. Tangom remembered
that moment forever: he stood in the middle of the dark street, leaning on the prince's
shoulder in sudden weakness; his eyes were closed and face turned up, and cold night fog,
imbued with city smoke, was slowly settling on it ... Life and freedom - what else does a
man really need? Faramir led them to the harbor through muddy dark streets of Pelargir
without delay.

"Dammit, guys, why did you violate my order to stay put in Umbar? And what's the
story with your recall here?"

"We haven't received that order. As for the recall, we expected you'd explain it to us
as a member of the Royal Council."

"I'm not on it any more. The Royal Council doesn't need defeatists."

"So that's how it is ... And this regiment of yours - did you invent it just to get us

out?"

"Well . . . let' s say - not just for that."
"That's really sticking your neck out."

"Whatever. I'm in a wonderful position right now - they can neither exile me any
further than the front lines nor give me less than a battalion - so I'm milking it for all it's
worth."

At the harbor they located a small ship. Two unusual-looking soldiers bundled in
camouflage cloaks were snoozing right on the pier nearby. They greeted Faramir in a
decidedly not-by-the-book manner, looked the two spies over appraisingly and started
getting the ship under way at once - quite competently, as far as Tangom could tell.

"Leaving before dawn. Prince?"

"You know, that there's no caveat about traitors in that order is indeed an oversight;
you want to stay to see how long it'll take them to figure it out?"

Faramir was prophetic - the very next morning a courier brought 'Amendment No. 1
to the Royal Decree 3014-227: No extension of amnesty for the criminals wishing to defend
the Motherland to those guilty of crimes against the state' to Pelargir. By that time the
prince's ship was halfway to the port of Harlond, where the Ithilien Regiment was forming.
They would not have been safe there, either, but when policemen with an arrest warrant
showed up in the Ithilienians' camp, it turned out that the wanted men had just left - what a
pity, less than an hour ago! - for the other shore of Anduin as part of a scouting party. Yes,
the raid will be long - a month, maybe more; no, the party is working independently with no
communications; if you wish, you can go beyond Osgiliath yourselves and look for them

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among the Ores. What? Well, then I can't help you, my apologies. Sergeant, see our guests
off, they have urgent business in Minas Tirith!

Truly it is said that war excuses everything - in a short time the 'traitor spies' were
simply forgotten for other, bigger things. Tangom spent the entire war in Ithilien, fighting
without much enthusiasm but bravely and skillfully, protecting his soldiers with all he had -
just like he used to protect his agents. This was actually the norm in their regiment, where
the relationship between soldiers and officers was markedly non-traditional. Serfs working
for their freedom and bandits working for their amnesty, foresters who had spent their lives
guarding royal deer and poachers who had spent theirs hunting those same deer, adventurous
aristocrats who used to hang out with Boromir and intellectual aristocrats from their pre-war
circles - all blended in an amazing alloy that carried an indelible impression of the
personality of their demiurge. Captain Faramir. Not surprisingly, Aragorn ordered the
regiment disbanded right after the Pelennor victory.

Tangom got to Mordor on his own, as a private person - a murderer drawn to the
scene of his crime. The Cormallen battle over, all he saw was the victors' feast on the ruins
of Barad-diir. Watch, he ordered himself, watch the fruits of your work, and don't dare turn
away! Then he accidentally ended up at Teshgol right during the 'mop-up,' and snapped . . .

Ever since then he lived with a firm conviction that the Higher Powers have granted
him a second life, but only so that he could expiate the evil he inadvertently did in his pre-
Teshgol life, rather than for free. Intuition told him back then to join Haladdin, but how was
he to know that he made the right choice? . . .

Suddenly he realized with an absolute, other-worldly clarity: this second life had been
granted to him as a loan, not permanently, and will be taken back the moment he succeeds in
his mission. Yes, precisely like that: if he guesses wrong (or pretends to), he will live to a
ripe old age; if he guesses right, he will obtain redemption at the price of his life. He has a
right only to this unhappy choice, but this right is the only difference between himself and
Aragorn' s dead men.

This last thought - about Aragorn' s corpses - brought Tangorn from his memories
back to the twilit Three Stars Embankment. All right, consider the dead men. Most likely
no one will ever find out where they came from (the Elves are real good at keeping secrets),
but the Umbarian ships that delivered that nightmarish cargo to the walls of Minas Tirith are
another matter: they all have owners and crews, registrations and insurance policies. No
doubt the Elvish agents have worked to bury this information, too (already a legend is
circulating that this had been a corsair fleet about to sack Pelargir), but these events are
recent and some tracks might not have been obliterated yet. These tracks will lead him to
people who chartered the ships, and those will lead him to so far unknown Elandar. It
makes no sense to start the Game he and Haladdin proposed to play with Lorien at any lower
level.

The most amusing thing is that none other than Mordorian intelligence will assist him
in his search - the same people he and Grager were accused of conspiring with four years
ago. Awaiting execution in Pelargir prison, he never imagined that one day he will indeed
be working with these guys. He could probably investigate this himself, but his network had
been put to sleep and it would take at least two weeks to re-activate it. That's time he
doesn't have, whereas the Mordorians ought to have a ton of material about this event,
otherwise their station chief should be summarily dismissed. The question is whether they
will want to share the information or contact him at all - he's nothing but a Gondorian to

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them, an enemy ... In any event, tomorrow it will all become clear. The contact method
Sharya-Rana gave them was as follows: come to the Seahorse Tavern in the harbor on an
odd Tuesday (that's tomorrow) around eleven in the morning, order a bottle of tequila and a
saucer of sliced lemon, pay with a gold coin, talk about anything at all with one of the
sailors at the bar, spend ten minutes or so at the table in the back left comer - and then walk
to the Great Castamir Square, where the meeting and the exchange of passwords will occur
behind the rightmost rostral column . . . So: shall he stroll the embankments a little longer
and then head unhurriedly back to the hotel?

Someone addressed him: "You're waiting for a lady, noble sir - buy her a flower!"
Tangorn turned around languidly, and his breath seized for a moment. It was not that the
flower girl was beauty personified; rather, her little basket was full of purple-golden meotis
orchids, exceedingly rare this time of year. Meotis was Alviss' favorite flower.

Chapter 40

All these days he had been putting off seeing her under various pretexts - "never
revisit the places where you have been happy." Since the moment she had so unerringly
prophesized that he was going to war, a lot of time passed and a lot of blood was spilled.
Neither one of them was what they had been, so why walk the ruins and engage in
necromancy? As he had found out, Alviss was now a highly respectable dame: her brilliant
intuition had helped her make a sizable fortune in the stock market. Apparently unmarried,
she seemed to be either engaged or betrothed to one of the pillars of the local business
establishment - what the hell would she need with a restless and dangerous ghost from her
past? Now all these wonderful deep defense fortifications lay in ruins.

"How much for your flowers, pretty one? I mean the whole basket?"

The girl - she looked about thirteen - stared at Tangorn in amazement. "You must not
be from around here, noble sir! These are real meotis, they're expensive."

"Yes, I know." He dug in his pocket and realized that he was out of silver. "Will a
dungan be enough?"

Suddenly, her wonderful eyes lost all sparkle; bewilderment and fear flashed through
them, replaced by tired disgust. "A gold coin for a basket of flowers is way too much, noble
sir," she said quietly. "I understand . . . you will take me to your place?"

The baron was never overly sentimental, but now his heart lurched with pity and
anger. "Stop it this second! Honestly, I only want the orchids. You haven't earned money
this way before, right?"

She nodded and sniffed childishly. "A dungan is a lot of money for us, noble sir.
Mama and sister and I can live for half a year on that."

"So take it and live on it," he grumbled, putting a golden disk bearing Sauron's profile
in her palm. "And pray for my fortune, I'll need it real soon ..."

"So you're a knight of Fortune, not a noble sir?" Now she was a wonderful blend of
curiosity, childish excitement and fairly adult coquettishness. "I'd never guess!"

"Yeah, something like that," the baron grinned, picked up the meotis basket, and
headed towards Jasper Street, followed by her silvery voice: "You will be fortunate, sir
knight, believe me! I'll pray with all my might, and I have a lucky touch, you'll see!"

Alviss' old housemaid Tina opened the door and reeled back as if she has seen a ghost.
Aha, he thought, so my appearance is a real surprise and not everyone here will like it. With
this thought he headed towards the living room and the sounds of music floating from there.

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leaving the old woman's laments behind - Tina must have realized that this visit from the
past was not going to end well ... The company in the living room was small and very
refined; the music, superbly performed, was Akvino's Third Sonata. At first, no one paid
attention to the baron when he noiselessly appeared in the doorway, and he had a few
moments to watch Alviss in her form-fitting dark blue dress from behind. Then she looked
around, their eyes met, and Tangorn had two simultaneous thoughts, one stupider than the
other: "Some women benefit from everything, even age" and "I wonder if she'll drop her
goblet?"

She moved towards him very, very slowly, as if against resistance, obviously external;
it seemed to him that music was the culprit - it had turned the room into a mountain stream
rushing over boulders, and Alviss had to walk upstream, against the current. Then the
rhythm changed, Alviss was trying to reach him, but the music resisted: it had turned from a
foot-impeding current into an impenetrable blackberry thicket; Alviss had to break through
those prickly vines, it was difficult and painful, very painful, although she tried not to show
it . . . Then it was all over: the music gave up, falling to Alviss' feet in a spent heap, and she
ran the tips of her fingers over his face, as if not yet believing:

"My God, Tan . . . my darling . . . you're back . . ."

They must have stood in that embrace for an eternity, and then she took him by the
hand and said quietly: "Come . . ."

Everything was like it always had been - and not. She was a totally different woman,
and he was discovering her anew, like the first time. There were no volcanic passions, no
exquisite caresses to suspend one on a thread at the edge of an abyss of sweet oblivion.
There was an enormous all-engulfing tenderness, and they both dissolved in it quietly,
having no other rhythm than the flutter of Arda pushing blindly through the prickly
starscape ... "We're sentenced to each other," she had once said; if so, then today the
sentence had been carried out.

"Will you stay here long?"

"1 don't know, Aly. Honestly, 1 don't know. 1 wish it were forever, but it might be for
just a few days. Looks like this time it's the Higher Powers that will decide, not I."
"I understand. So you're in business again. Will you need help?"
"Unlikely. Maybe a few small things."

"Darling, you know I'll do anything for you - even make love in the missionary
position!"

"Well, I'm sure that such a sacrifice won't be required," Tangorn echoed her jest with
a laugh. "Perhaps a trifle - risk your life a couple of times."
"Yes, that'd be easier. So what do you need?"

"1 was joking, Aly. You see, these games are really dangerous now, not like the good
old times. Frankly, even my coming here was totally crazy, even though 1 checked real well
... I'll just have some coffee and plod back to my hotel now."

There was a moment of silence, and then she said in a strangely hoarse voice: "Tan,
I'm afraid . . . I'm a broad, 1 can foresee . . . Don't go, 1 beg you!"

She's really out of sorts, never saw her like this ... Oh, really - never? He
remembered from four years ago: "You're going to war. Tan." This just keeps getting
worse, he thought with displeasure. Meanwhile she clung to him fiercely and just kept

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repeating desperately: "Stay with me, please! I've never asked anything of you, not once in
all these years . . . Just this once, for me!"

He gave in just to calm her down (does it really matter from where I come to the
Seahorse Tavern tomorrow?), so Mongoose's team had waited for him in vain at the Lucky
Anchor that night.

Very well - he'll come tomorrow if not tonight. Rather than chase him all over the
city, better to wait for him near his lair, there's no hurry. Besides, it'd be imprudent to
divide the capture team: the baron is, after all, the third sword of Gondor, something to
reckon with . . . Mongoose knew how to wait better than anyone.

The Umbarian Secret Service, well-hidden in the dusty ink-smelling burrows of the
Foreign Ministry under the deliberately ambiguous plaque DSD - Department of Special
Documentation - is a stealthy organization. Even the location of its headquarters is a state
secret: the Green House on Swamp Alley that 'well-informed' high officials and senators
mention sometimes in appropriately hushed voices is actually only an archive holding
documents declassified after the one hundred twenty years prescribed by law. Only three
people know the name of the Department's Director: the Chancellor, the Minister of
Defense, and the Prosecutor General (the Office's employees may kill only on the
Prosecutor's sanction, although sometimes they obtain it after the fact), and only he himself
knows the names of his four Vice-Directors.

Unlike the secret services that are set up on the police model (these tend to never lose
their penchant for pompous headquarters buildings on major streets and for scaring their
own citizens with tall tales of their omnipotence and omnipresence), DSD had arisen more
like a security service of a major trading corporation, and is above all concerned with always
staying in the shadows. The Department's organizational structure follows that of the
zamorro (the Umbarian crime syndicates): a system of isolated cells connected only through
their leaders, who in turn form the second- and third-tier cells. The Office's employees live
under specially developed false identities both at home and abroad; they never carry
weapons (unless required by their assumed identity) and never reveal their employment
under any circumstances. The oath of silence and umber to (Grager had once described this
principle to Tangom as "one dungan to enter, a hundred to leave") bond its members in a
kind of a knightly order. It may be hard to believe, given Umbarian mores, but during its
three hundred years of existence there have been only a handful of betrayals in the DSD
(which changes its official name with the regularity of a snake shedding its skin).

The Department's mandate is 'to provide the top officials of the Republic with precise,
timely, and objective information about the situation in the country and beyond.' Obviously
only an independent and uninterested source can be objective, and therefore by law the DSD
only gathers information, but does not participate in related political or military decision-
making and bears no responsibility for the results of those decisions; it is nothing but a
measuring device that is categorically barred from interfering with the reality it measures.
This separation of duties is truly wise. Otherwise, intelligence services either placate the
powerful by telling them what they want to hear, or get out of control, which leads to such
'niceties' as gathering compromising information on its own citizens, provocations, or
irresponsible sabotage abroad; all of the above is justified by carefully filtered information.

Thus, from a legal standpoint, everything that went on that summer evening in a
certain undistinguished mansion where the meeting between DSD Director Almandin, his

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Vice-Director in charge of domestic operations and agent networks Yakudze, and Admiral
Carnero's chief of staff Flag Captain Makarioni took place (which required all parties to
overcome the eternal mutual dislike between the 'spooks' and the 'grunts' common to all
worlds), had a very definite name: traitorous conspiracy. Not that any of them lusted for
power, not at all - it was just that the spies clearly foresaw the consequences of their small
prosperous country's absorption by greedy despotic Gondor, and could not follow their lily-
livered 'top officials.'

"How's your chief's health. Flag Captain?"

"Quite satisfactory. The stiletto only bruised the lung, and as for the rumors that the
Admiral is at death's door, that's our work. His Excellency has no doubts that in two weeks
he'll be on his feet and nothing will keep him from personally leading Operation Sirocco."

"As for us, we have bad news, Flag Captain. Our people report from Pelargir that
Aragorn had radically speeded up the preparations of the invasion fleet. They estimate that
it will be fully ready in about five weeks ..."

"Thunder and devils! That's the same time as ours!"

"Precisely. I don't have to tell you that in the last few days before deployment an
army or a fleet is totally helpless, like a shedding lobster. They're getting ready in Pelargir,
we - in Barangar, practically head-to-head; the advantage will be a day or two, and the one
who gains those few days will be the one to catch the other unprepared in his home port.
The difference is that they're preparing for war openly, whereas we're hiding our work from
our own government and have to waste two-thirds of our efforts on secrecy and
disinformation ... Flag Captain, can you speed up the preparations in Barangar in any
way?"

"Only at the cost of some secrecy ... but we'll have to risk it now, there's no other
way. So the most important thing now is to throw 12 Shore Street off the scent, but that's
your job, as I see it."

After the sailor made his goodbyes, the DSD chief looked questioningly at his
comrade. The spies made a funny pair - the portly, seemingly half- asleep Almandin and the
lean Yakudze, swift as a barracuda. Over the years of working together they have learned to
understand each other with not even a few words, but a few looks.

"Well?"

"I've gotten our materials on the Gondorian station chief ..."

"Captain of the Secret Guard Marandil; cover - second embassy secretary."

"The same. An exceptional dirtbag, even compared to the rest of them. I wonder if
they've shipped their worst dregs over here, to Umbar?"

"I don't think so. These guys work the same way in Minas Tirith right now, except
they dump the bodies into outhouses rather than the canals . . . Whatever. Stay focused."

"All right. Marandil. A real bouquet of virtues, let me tell you ..."

"Have you decided to recruit him based on a flower from that bouquet?"

"Not exactly. Can't get him on anything from his past, since Aragorn had pardoned
all their sins. On the other hand, the present ... first, he's appallingly unprofessional;
second, he has no spine and can't handle pressure at all. Should he make a really big screw-
up on which we can pressure him, he's ours. Our task is to help him screw up."

"All right, develop this angle. In the meantime, toss them some bone to deflect
attention from Barangar Bay. Give them, say ... oh, everything we have on Mordorian
agents here."

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"What the hell would they want with that now?"

"Nothing, really, but as you've correctly pointed out, they're appallingly
unprofessional. Shark reflex: swallow first, then consider whether it was a good idea.
Surely they will now gleefully eviscerate the Mordorian network, which nobody needs any
more, and forget everything else. This will also count as a goodwill gesture from our side; it
will give us some breathing room while you set a trap for Marandil."

The thick DSD dossier on the Mordorian network in Umbar was delivered to 12 Shore
Street that same evening, causing a condition approaching euphoria. Among other tips it
contained the following contact: 'Seahorse Tavern, 1 1 AM on odd Tuesdays; order a bottle
of tequila with sliced lemon and sit at a table in the back left corner.'

Chapter 41

Umbar, Seahorse Tavern
June 3, 3019

It was a few minutes to eleven when Tangom pushed open the door (crudely fashioned
out of ship planking) and went down the slippery steps to the common hall that forever stank
of smoke, stale sweat, and vomit. Few people were here this early, but of those present
some were already well inebriated. In a comer a couple of waiters were unenthusiastically
beating up a weeping bum: must have tried to leave without paying or else stole some
trinket. Nobody paid any attention to the altercation - it was obvious that such
performances were part of the service here. This Seahorse Tavern was some dive.

Nobody stared at the baron - his choice of disguise for the day (a gaudy player's
outfit) was perfect. Four dice-playing 'skuas'' with enormous golden rings on their tattooed
paws openly tried to estimate Tangom' s relative position in the underworld, but having
apparently reached no agreement, went back to their game. Tangom leaned casually on the
bar and scanned the hall, leisurely pushing an oar-sized sandalwood toothpick around his
mouth. Not that he expected to figure out whoever was on watch here (he had enough
respect for his Mordorian colleagues), but why not try? Two sailors were sipping rum at the
bar, Anfalasians by the sound of them, one older, the other still a teenager. "Where' d you
come from, guys?" the baron inquired good-naturedly. The older man, as was to be
expected, looked through the landlubber and did not deign to answer, but the younger one
could not resist the temptation to respond with the classic: "Horses come; we sail." These
two looked authentic.

Having thus satisfied the 'talk with a sailor' requirement, Tangom imperiously tossed
a Vendotenian gold nyanma on the bar: "Tequila, barman - but only the best!"

The barman, whose droopy moustache made him resemble a seal, sniggered: "We've
only one kind, man - the best, same as the worst. Want some?"

"Hell, whatcha gonna do? . . . All right, slice me some lemon for a chaser, then."

Right after he settled down at a table in the rear left comer with his tequila he caught a
movement with a corner of his eye and knew immediately, even before identifying the foe,
that he was busted. They certainly were here before he was, which meant they hadn't tailed
him here; therefore, the contact itself was compromised - they were waiting for a Mordorian
courier and now their wait paid off. What a stupid way to blow the mission! The four
'skuas' split up, two taking up positions by the front door and the other two heading his way.

' A kleptoparasitic species of seabird - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skua ; here, a minor port thug.

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smoothly navigating around tables, both with right hands inside their jackets. Had the baron
had the Slumber-maker with him, he could have dealt with those characters easily and
without even damaging them too much, but a sword would have been unharmonious with
his chosen disguise, so now, unarmed, he was their lawful prey. So much for "real pros
don't carry weapons!" For a moment he toyed with a really crazy idea: smash the bottle
against the table and ... He restrained himself: what the hell are you thinking? A 'rosette'
is no sword, it's no good against four; no, you can only count on your head now ... your
head and your Fortune. But first, got to foul up their routine and buy time. Which was why
he did not even rise to meet them; rather, he waited until an ominous "Hands on the table
and stay seated" sounded right above his ear, and then turned slightly towards the speaker
and spat through his teeth: "Idiots! To ruin such an operation ..." Then he sighed and
tiredly told the one on the right: "Shut your trap, cretin, before a nazgiil flies in!"

"You're coming with us, and no fooling," that one informed him, but there was
discernible doubt in his voice: they had not expected the captured 'Ore' to speak with a
chiseled Minas Tirith accent.

"With you, of course, where else? To administer an acid enema to the imbeciles that
stick their noses everywhere without informing the HQ . . . But, with your permission," the
baron continued with mocking politeness, "I'll still have my drink - to my captain's badge,
now nothing but a dream ... Don't stand over me like the White Towers! Where am I
gonna go? Pat me down for weapons, if you want, I'm not carrying any."

The 'skua' on the right looked ready to salute. The one on the left, however, either
was not impressed, or was, but knew the manual better. He sat down across from the baron
and motioned his comrade to take position behind their quarry.

"Keep your hands on the table, otherwise . . . you know." With those words he poured
Tangorn a shot of tequila, explaining: "I'll serve you myself, just in case."

"Wonderful!" smirked the baron (actually, there's nothing wonderful about the
situation: one foe is right in front, tracking his face and eyes, the other is invisible behind his
back, ready to smash his head - can't make it any worse.) "Will you lick my finger, too?"

When the man's eyes flared with anger, Tangorn laughed conciliatorily, as if just now
reahzing his mistake: "Sorry, buddy, no offense meant. I just twigged that you must not
have been in this town very long and don't know how to drink tequila. You all probably
think it's moonshine, bad hooch, right? No, nothing of the sort. I mean, sure, if you drink it
by the glass without a chaser, then yeah, it stinks; but really it's great stuff, you just have to
know how to drink it. The thing here," Tangorn relaxed against the back of his chair and
dreamily half-closed his eyes, "is to alternate its taste with salt and sourness. Watch this:
you put a pinch of salt on your thumbnail - have to lick it for the salt to stay there." With
those words he reached towards the small salt-and-pepper bowl in the middle of the table;
the 'skua' tensed and put his hand inside his jacket again, but did not yell "Hands down!" -
apparently actually listening and learning. "Now you touch the salt with just the tip of your
tongue, and whoa!" Damn, damn, damn - what rotgut they serve here! "Now the lemon,
the lemon! Ni-i-i-ce! ... Now, here's another great method - pour me another one, since
you're my waiter today! This one is with pepper rather than salt." Again he reached for the
bowl, but stopped in mid-movement and turned to the other 'skua' in annoyance: "Listen,
buddy, move back a bit, willya? I hate it when people breathe garlic in my ear!"

"My position is according to the manual," the young man answered crossly. Little
fool, thought the baron, the manual says first and foremost that you must not talk to me. His

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'g's are soft, he must be from Lebennin ... actually, that's totally unimportant; what is
important is that he's not directly behind me but rather a step to the left, and is six feet tall
less a couple of inches ... Is this it? Yes; the head did what it had to, now it's Fortune's
turn.

A second later Tangom, still carelessly slouched on his chair, reached the bowl of
powdered red pepper with the fingers of his left hand and tossed it behind his back in a swift
casual movement, without looking, straight into the Lebenninian's face, simultaneously
slamming the toe of his boot into the leg bone of his vis-d-vis.

It is a well-known fact that a startled person always inhales, so the peppered man was
now out of commission for the foreseeable future; the one across from him gurgled: "Aw
shit!" and collapsed under the table in a twist of pain, but not for long: the baron failed to
break his leg. The other two were already charging at him from the door, one wielding an
Umbarian dagger, the other a flail, knocking chairs over, while Tangom was still fishing
inside the jacket of the Lebenninian convulsing on the floor, thinking detachedly to himself:
if he only has some toy like brass knuckles or a spring knife - game over . . . But no - praise
Tulkas! - it was a large Umbarian dagger like the ones the mountain men of the Peninsula
carry on their belts, a half-yard pointed blade good for both stabbing and slashing; not much,
but still a weapon of a warrior rather than a thief.

He engaged the pair and quickly saw that he would not get away cheaply: these guys
were no cowards and knew their short weapons almost as well as he did. When his left arm
went slack from a glancing blow with the flail, while the third opponent came up from
behind, limping but still in fighting shape, the baron knew that this was serious - really
serious - and began fighting in earnest.

The sullen gondolier, paid with a silver castamir, tied up at a decrepit cargo pier and
returned a few minutes later with new clothes for his passenger - rags compared to a
player's cockatoo garb, but with no blood on them. Tangom changed on the run to save
time, putting away the captured dagger and the silver badge he took off the neck of one of
the 'skuas' - Karanir, Sergeant of the Secret Guard of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, had no
further need of it. The third sword of Gondor had escaped, leaving a dead body and two
wounded behind; actually, the wounded were most likely already dispatched, since the
patrons of the Seahorse Tavem liked secret policemen no better than those of any port dive
in any of the worlds.

He himself got away with two minor wounds - scratches, really; the numb arm was a
bigger problem, but it was the least of the baron's current worries. After all, he had a few
remedies from Haladdin's medkit with him. So what's the situation? Four 'skuas' have
disappeared without a trace; they won't be missed for two or three hours, but this timing
advantage is all he has. Pretty soon the entire Gondorian spy force will start hunting him,
along with - and this is much worse - the local police. Horribly corrupted as they are, they
know their business second to none; in less than two hours their informants will let them
know that the performance at the Seahorse Tavem was given by none other than their old
acquaintance Baron Tangom, whereupon they'll immediately stake out the port and start
combing the city closer to evening. In spy slang his situation is known as 'leper with a bell' :
he has no right to either call on his old agents for help (his pre-war information on that
network may very well be at the Gondorian station), or to appeal to the Umbarian Secret
Service for protection (they will only cover him if he admits to being Faramir's man, which

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is flatly impossible). The saddest thing is that he had lost all possibility of contact with the
Mordorian network here - the only people who could have helped him reach Elandar. To
make a long story short, he failed his task and is now marked for death; that none of it is his
personal fault is totally irrelevant - Haladdin's mission will now never be completed.

So now he has no agents, no contacts, no safe houses; what does he have? He has
money - lots of money, over four hundred dungans in six caches - plus the well-hidden
mithril corselet that Haladdin gave him to sell in case he could not locate Sharya-Rana's
gold. He has a couple of reserve hideouts from the old times, which will be dug up in a
couple of days at most; he has some old connections in the underworld, which could be
stale. That seems to be it . . . He doesn't even have the Slumber-maker - the sword is still at
Alviss' house, and returning to either Jasper Street or the Lucky Anchor is absolutely out of
the question.

By the time the gondolier let him off near the harbor warehouses, it was clear to him
that the only sane tactic in such overwhelmingly appalling circumstances was to bluff
without restraint - to mount an attack rather than crawl into a hidey-hole.

Chapter 42

Umbar, 12 Seashore Street
June 5, 3019

Mongoose walked unhurriedly down the embassy's corridors. The worse and more
dangerous a situation is, the more deliberate, unhurried, and polite must the commander be
(at least in public); to judge by the serene smile firmly plastered to Mongoose's face, the
situation was the worst it could possibly be.

He found the station chief, Captain Marandil, in his office.

"Hail, Captain! I'm Lieutenant Mongoose, here's my badge. I am carrying out a top-
secret assignment here in Umbar. Regretfully, I'm having some problems ..."

Marandil did not even stop gazing at his nails; it was obvious that some invisible shred
of skin on his left pinkie was of much more interest to him than some visitor's problems.
Just then the door banged open, and a burly young man almost seven feet tall pushed the
lieutenant aside most unceremoniously:

"Time to start, boss! The girl's first class!"

"You guys must've gotten yours dipped already," the captain grumbled querulously,
but familiarly.

"No way, sir! The boss gets first dibs, we regular folks follow ... but the lady's
already undressed and waiting impatiently."
"Let's go, then, before she gets a chill!"

The big man guffawed; the captain started getting out from behind the table, but
caught Mongoose's look. Something in that look suddenly made him feel that he had to
explain: "She's from last night's catch, a Mordorian spy! The bitch' 11 wind up in the canal
anyway ..."

Mongoose was already dispassionately studying the kitschy ornaments on the ceiling
(rather tasteless stuff, really); he was genuinely concerned that the overwhelming fury he
felt was about to spill out through his eyes. Sure, spying is a cruel business; sure, a third-
degree interrogation is, well, an interrogation in the third degree; sure, the 'girl' should have
understood the risks before she got into these games, that's all fair and by the book . . . What
was absolutely not by the book was how these two colleagues of his behaved - like they

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were not in His Majesty's service, but rather ... Actually, to hell with them all - so far, at
least, straightening out resident spies is not within Task Force Feanor's ambit. The
lieutenant addressed Marandil again, this time in such a gently persuasive tone that any
competent person would have immediately guessed how serious he was:

"My apologies. Captain, but my business brooks no delay, believe me. I'm sure that
your subordinates can handle that job adequately without you." He nodded at the big guy.

The big guy positively bent over with laughter, and then drawled, clearly encouraged
by his boss' sneer: "Forget it. Lieutenant! You know how they say: three out of four
problems solve themselves, and the fourth is unsolvable. Better come with us to the
basement - the cutie'U service you first, you being a guest and all. She'll lick you or you
can lick her ..."

Marandil surreptitiously enjoyed this put-down of the visitor from the capital. Of
course, he'll have to assist, but first let the man understand that here, in Umbar, he's a
nobody and his name is nothing.

"How are you standing in front of a superior officer?" Mongoose inquired in a flat
voice, looking Marandil' s henchman up and down, lingering on the tips of his boots a bit.

"What's wrong with how I'm standing? I'm not falling over, right?"

"That's an idea," the lieutenant said thoughtfully and moved forward in a light
dancelike move. He was a foot shorter and half as wide as his opponent, so the big man
struck carefully to avoid accidentally killing him with his melon of a fist. He struck and
froze in amazement: Mongoose did not even dodge the blow or fall back - he simply
vanished into thin air. The man stood gaping until someone tapped his shoulder from
behind - and he actually turned around, the fool . . .

Mongoose stepped over the prostrated body - fastidiously, as if it was a pile of manure
- stopped in front of Marandil, who involuntarily retreated behind the table, panic clearly
visible in his eyes, and remarked drily:

"Your subordinates can barely keep their feet. Are you starving them or something?"

"Hey, you're cool. Lieutenant!" the other managed to say with a forced smile. "Don't
be offended; I just wanted to see you in action ..."

"I figured as much. Have you seen enough?"

"Are you maybe one of those, what's their name - nin 'yokveT

"That's a different technique, albeit based on the same principle. Back to business.
Regarding fun in the basement - I'm afraid you'll have to wait, perhaps even abstain, if you
excuse a flat joke. Order your people to start without you. Oh, and let them remove this
impudent youth."

Mongoose turned down both wine and coffee and got straight to business: "Yesterday
your people tried apprehending Baron Tangorn at the Seahorse Tavern. What does this
mean? Have you perhaps forgotten that Ithilien is a vassal of the Crown of Gondor?"

"We had no idea it was Tangorn! He gave Mordorian recognition signals, so my boys
thought he was their courier."

"Aha!" Mongoose closed his eyes for a second. "This changes things. So he is
undoubtedly tied to Mordor. Well, he's useless to them now, too."

"Don't worry, we'll get him before nightfall. It's not just us looking, we've activated
the Umbar police. They've already found one of his lairs, he'd left it literally half an hour
before they showed up ..."

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"That's why I'm here. You must immediately stop looking for Tangom. Tell the
police that this was an accident, a miscommunication between two friendly secret services
. . . especially since this does resemble reality."

"I don't understand how you ..."

"You don't have to understand anything. Captain. Are you familiar with the letter F?"

Marandil took one look at the square of silk in the lieutenant's hand and visibly blanched.
"The baron is my responsibility, and he must not concern you. Call your people off, but
most importantly - I repeat - stop the police immediately! Should Tangorn fall into their
hands rather than mine, it'll be a catastrophe that will cost us both our heads."
"But, Lieutenant, sir . . . He killed four of my people!"

Mongoose shrugged. "He did the right thing. Fools that get into conversations with
their targets ought to be killed on the spot. Now: you stop looking for Tangom and simply
wait. It's not unlikely that he'll show up soon one way or another . . ."

"Show up? Is he nuts?"

"Not at all. However, he's apparently in a tight bind, and as far as I understand him,
he's inclined to bet the farm in such situations. Should you learn anything about him, let me
know right away: have a Dol Amroth pennant hoisted under the Gondorian flag on the
embassy flagpole, and soon someone will pay you a visit. Thereafter you'll forget ever
hearing the name Tangom. Understood?"

"Yes, sir! Listen, Lieutenant, we've learned that he used to have a broad here . . ."

"Seven Jasper Street?"

"Ye-e-es ..." Marandil drawled in disappointment. "So you know already?"
"Certainly. It looks like he'd spent the night before last there. So?"

"So shouldn't we shake something out of her?"

Mongoose grimaced tiredly. "What do you expect to shake out of her? What
positions they've used and how many orgasms she's had? What else can she tell? Tangorn
is not enough of an idiot to talk business with his lover."

"Still, maybe ..."

"Captain, I repeat: forget everything that has anything to do with Tangom - these are
my problems now, not yours. Should you meet him in the street, just cross to the other side
and then have the Dol Amroth pennant hoisted, all right? By the way, concerning your
problems: I understand that you're now harvesting the old Mordorian network. Forgive the
impertinent question, but - what for?"

"What do you mean - what for?"

"Is it any kind of a nuisance to you, pray tell? In any event, why have you started
grabbing the agents instead of putting a watch on them to figure out their connections?"
"We were in a hurry, just in case the DSD is double-dealing . . ."
"DSD?! Was it they who gave you the Mordorian network?"
"Well, yes. A goodwill gesture . . ."

"Captain! That's a fairy tale for retarded children! Try thinking this over one more
time - why would they make you such a princely gift? What do they want in exchange?
Well, whatever, those are your problems, like I said; do what you think best. Goodbye!"

Mongoose headed for the door, but half-way there looked around suddenly: "Oh, and
one more thing. Captain. In anticipation of your professional enthusiasm ..." He hesitated,
as if choosing the right words, then put his misgivings aside: "Anyway: if any of your men

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comes any closer than three arrow-flights to Jasper Street, I'll feed you a salad of your own
balls. Understand?"

Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was enough for Marandil to comprehend
clearly: this one will make good on the promise.

Mongoose's foresight came true the very next day. An Inspector Vaddari, one of
Umbar Police's operatives, desired an urgent meeting with Marandil downtown. The
inspector was not one of the policemen who worked for the Gondorian embassy directly, but
was quite aware of all these games: he was an old and experienced detective who knew the
seamy underside of life like few others. He should have made commissar long ago by both
seniority and merit, but had not - and therefore took bribes with no qualms. It should be
mentioned that corruption was a hallowed tradition of the Umbar Police (both colleagues
and honest citizens treated a policeman or a customs officer who would not be bribed with
cautious suspicion: "Better not turn your back on this guy"), but unlike some of his
colleagues Vaddari always delivered the services purchased and never blamed
circumstances beyond his control.

"Mister Secretary, your people were looking for a certain Tangorn when suddenly the
search was called off yesterday. Are you still interested in this man?"

Marandil leaned forward cautiously: "Well ... I suppose I am."

"I'm prepared to tell you exactly where he's going to be tonight, if we agree on the
price."

"May 1 ask where the information comes from?"

"You may. He sent me a letter with a meeting proposal."

"So why did you decide to sell out a potential client?"

"1 haven't even considered that. It's just that he hasn't listed secrecy as one of the
conditions of the meeting, so I'm strictly following the letter of the agreement. If this
Tangorn doesn't foresee such a possibility, then 1 don't want to deal with such a fool."

"Hmm ... So how much do you want?"

"Three dungans."

"What?! Are you freaking nuts, man? Like, totally disconnected from reality?"
"My job is to offer ..."

"You should know that I really don't give a crap about this whole business!"
"Who're you kidding, buddy? I'm an operative, not a mark! First you turn the city

upside down for a day and a half looking for this dude, and then - so sorry, there's been a
mix-up! An idiot would know that some other outfit is looking for him now, and the
police's been sidelined. So I'll have to figure out myself who these other folks are, while
time's a- wasting!"

"All right -two!"

"1 said three and 1 meant three; 1 ain't a peanut seller. Quit haggling already, it's not
like you're paying with your own money!"

"All right, whatever. Two now and the third when we take him on your info."

"'Whatever' is right - I tell you when and where, the rest is your problem. All three
right now."

"What if you're cheating me?"

"Listen, we're adults in business, no? I'm not some wino offering you a pirate
treasure map for a bottle, am I?"

Having pocketed the coins, Vaddari laid out the set-up:

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"Know Castamir Square?"

"The one with a lake in the middle and three canals opening into it?"

"The same. The lake is round, a hundred fifty yards across; the canals open into it a
hundred twenty degrees apart - counting from the rostral columns, at twelve, four, and eight
o'clock. The embankment isn't unbroken - there are stairways down to the waterline, two
between each pair of canals, that makes six. Seven in the evening I must be at the stairs to
the right of the eight o'clock canal, dressed in a scarlet cape and a hat with black plumage.
A water taxi will arrive by one of the canals; the gondolier will let me board after seeing
those signs and will then follow my directions. I'm supposed to cruise from stair to stair,
not one after the other, but rather crossing the lake: seven o'clock, eleven, three, and so on.
Get it?"

"Yes, quite."

"There's almost no traffic on the lake at that time of day; if any other gondolas show
up, I'm supposed to park and wait until they leave. Tangom will come down one of the

stairs once he's sure that there's no danger, and board my gondola. He will be in make-up
and disguise and I will know him when he takes out a purple kerchief and waves it twice.
That's it. Good luck. Secretary, and good evening."

Vaddari got up and headed out of the coffeehouse where they have met, thinking in
passing that he'd bet his life on Tangom making fools of these guys.

The captain returned to the embassy and filled out a field agent expense report first
thing: 4 (four) dungans. He was tempted to put in five, but restrained himself: greed kills,
while a birdie pecks a little here and there and is satisfied. So, should he raise the Dol
Amroth pennant and hand Tangom to that cutthroat from the capital on a silver platter?
Like hell, he suddenly decided. Such opportunities come up but once in a lifetime; I'll
capture him myself, and the winner is always right. He remembered Mongoose's eyes and
shivered: maybe he should play it safe? Then he calmed himself: no, this is a sure thing. I
have the time and place of the meeting, I have thirty-two operatives and five hours to
prepare - the Sun-faced Demiurge of the Aritanians supposedly managed to create the entire
Arda in five hours, complete with fish in the water, birds in the air, beasts on the ground,
dragons in the earthfire, and man with all his disgusting habits . . .

Chapter 43

Umbar, Castamir the Great Square
June 5, 3019

"How many have you counted, Yakudze?"
"Thirty-two."

"I can only see twelve ..."
"I'd rather not point them out."

"Heavens, no! You, after all, are the operative, while I'm just an analyst, so you rule
here." Almandin relaxed against the back of a wicker chair, enjoying his wine. They were
sitting under a striped awning of one of Castamir Square's many small open cafes, almost
directly under a rostral column liberally studded with the prows of captured Gondorian
ships, lazily observing the milling of the idle evening crowd. "If there's indeed thirty-two of
them, then Marandil has brought out his entire staff, save the embassy guards. Do you see
our performer, by any chance?"

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Yakudze looked over the bustling embankment of the grubby round lake one more
time. Gentlemen and naval officers, street vendors and gaudy street women, itinerant
musicians and fortune-tellers, mendicants and knights of Fortune ... He immediately
recognized all the Gondorian spies among the throng (although some of them, to their credit,
were pretty well disguised), but to his great displeasure he could not identify the baron.
Unless, of course ... no, that's crazy.

"It looks like he had recognized these guys, too, gave up and tiptoed away."

"That's exactly what a professional would do," nodded Almandin, "but the baron will
do something else entirely . . . want to bet?"

"Wait a moment!" The Vice-Director of Operations glanced at his chief in surprise.
"Do you consider Tangorn to be a dilettante, then?"

"Not a dilettante, my dear Yakudze, but an amateur. Do you understand the
difference?"

"To be honest - no, not quite."

"A professional is not the man who's mastered all the techniques of his craft - the
baron has no problems in this regard - but the one who always carries out his assignments,
regardless of the circumstances. It so happens that the baron has never worked for hire; he
is bound by neither oath nor umberto and is used to the unbelievable luxury of doing only
things he himself approves of. Should an order contradict his notions of honor or run
against his conscience, he will simply ignore it, and to hell with the consequences - both for
himself and his goals. You can see that such a man belongs in a Vendotenian monastery,
rather than in any intelligence service."

"I think I know what you mean," Yakudze nodded thoughtfully. "The baron lives in a
world of moral scruples and stereotypes that are unthinkable to you and me ... By the way,
1 was refreshing my memory of his dossier the other day and came across an interesting
tidbit of friendly banter over a few drinks. Someone asked him whether he could strike a
woman if he had to. He spent some time seriously thinking about it, and then admitted that
perhaps he'd be able to kill a woman, but never to hit one, under any circumstances. His
dossier is anyway a rather curious read - it's more of a literary review than a dossier; about
half of it is poems and translations. 1 actually think that no one outside of our Department
has a more complete collection of Tangorn' s takatos."

"Too bad that they won't be published until a hundred twenty years from now under
the declassification law ... Aha! A gondola! So, would you like to bet that he's going to
pull some crazy stunt and fool all of these guys?"

"1 think that it would be more appropriate for us to pray for his Fortune, or rather
Marandil's blunder . . ."

A small three-seater gondola touched shore at one of the stairways descending to the
water to take on a gentleman in a scarlet cape and a hat with black plumage, and started to
cross the lake leisurely. Suddenly a sleepy expression appeared on Yakudze' s face; he
unhurriedly took out a gold-plated sanguine pencil, wrote a few words on a napkin, turned it
over and handed the pencil to Almandin, saying: "All right, it's a bet." The other man also
wrote something on another napkin, and both returned to silently watching the
developments.

The gondola described a not-quite-complete triangle and came back to the stair next to
the one where it started. That spot was perennially occupied by a band of lepers, wrapped in
head-to-toe striped robes, who solicited alms there. The so-called 'cold' leprosy is both fatal

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and incurable, but unlike the 'hot' leprosy it is almost non-contagious (the only way to catch
it is by squashing one of the many pustules covering the leper's face and hands, or by doing
something like sharing his cup), so its sufferers were never expelled from human
settlements. The Hakimians of Khand even considered them especially pleasing to God.
Every day those mournful figures in their striped shrouds silently appealed to the citizens'
mercy, as if inviting them to compare the lepers' plight to whatever they considered
troublesome in their own lives. They were motionless to the point of appearing to be some
architectural element like the gondola tie-up posts, so when one of those cloth-draped
statues suddenly got up and headed towards the stair, limping slightly, it was clear that
something was afoot.

The leper stepped on the top stair and took a purple kerchief out of his sleeve.
Immediately a bunch of idle men surrounding a street performer who was juggling three
daggers about twenty yards away split up - two headed left and right, cutting off the robed
man's escape routes, while the other two and the juggler himself, snatching the flying blades
out of the air, went straight for the prey. It became clear that the man had miscalculated - he
started his descent while the gondola was too far away, about fifteen yards from the shore.
He might still have made it to the safety of the boat if not for the cowardice of the man in the
scarlet cape: when he saw the three armed pursuers, he panicked, and the gondolier, obeying
his frantic gestures, began pulling away, abandoning his partner. The man in the robe ran
down to the bottom step and halted - there was no escape or help coming. A couple of
seconds later the 'idlers' caught up with him and pinned his arms behind his back while the
'juggler' punched him in the liver, following up with a chop to the neck on the rebound. It
was over, the prey bagged.

However, when they dragged the 'leper' up to the embankment, an enraged crowd
gathered instantly: the locals were unused to sick people being treated that way. Two
Hakimians in yellow pilgrim's caps who happened to be nearby intervened for the 'man of
God' right away, and the scandal began smoothly developing into a scuffle. Marandil's men
were fiercely pushing their way towards the scene through the thickening throng, and a
police whistle was already trilling unnervingly somewhere close. Meanwhile, the man in the
scarlet cape came ashore three stairways away from the fray, let the gondola go and left
unhurriedly; it was obvious that the false leper's fate was not of much concern to him.

"What do you think of the performance, dear Yakudze?"

"Excellent. Truly, the theater had lost a great director in Tangom."

The Vice-Director of Operations' facial expression did not seem to change, but
Almandin had known his subordinate for many years and could tell that the terrible tension
that had gripped him for the last ten minutes was gone, and a hint of a triumphant smile was
beginning to form in the comers of his mouth. Well, this was his victory, too . . .

Yakudze called on a passing waiter: "A bottle of Nurnen, my friend!"

"Aren't you afraid of spooking our luck?"

"Not at all. It's all over, and Marandil is as good as ours."

Waiting for the wine, they watched the proceedings with interest. The fight ended

abruptly, although the din only increased, and an empty space appeared in the middle of the
throng; the robed man was lying there, trying in vain to get up. Meanwhile, the 'idlers' and
the 'juggler' had suddenly lost all interest in their victim: not only did they let him go, but
they were trying to melt into the crowd, one of them looking at his palms with abject horror.

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"See, chief, they've finally figured out that the leper is a real one! This is definitely
not a case of 'better late than never.' While apprehending him they must've squashed a
dozen pustules on his hands and got smeared in ichor, so all three are dead men now. Can't
blame their emotional reaction; to learn that you've got only a few months to live (if you can
call it living) must be quite, quite disconcerting."

"The leper must have profited by all this, 1 suppose?"

"That's for sure! 1 think that each blow must've netted him at least a silver castamir:
Tangorn is not one of those idiots who try to save on minor details. What do they call it in
the North: sweating the small stuff, yes?"

When the golden Numen bubbled in their goblets like a mountain brook, Yakudze
asked impudently (today he had the right): "Who's paying?" Almandin nodded, turned over
the napkins, compared their notes, and acknowledged honestly: "My treat." His napkin bore
a single word gondolier, while the Vice-Director of Operations' inscription was: T. is
gondolier; diversion onshore.

Chapter 44

When the last vestiges of the scandal on the embankment died down and the leper
regained his customary place, Almandin asked with curiosity:

"Listen, suppose you were planning this instead of that idiot Marandil. I'm not asking
whether you'd capture the baron - that'd be an insult - but I'd like to know how many
people you'd need as against his thirty-two?"

Yakudze spent half a minute considering this while scanning the embankment, and
then concluded:

"Three. Not any kind of super-swordsmen or hand-to-hand experts, either; the only
necessary skill is minimal facility with silk throw nets. Note that all three canals join the
lake under low bridges, less than ten feet clearance. I'd put a man on each bridge; that the
target was the gondolier was pretty obvious, but in any event we'd have prearranged signals.
When he's passing under a bridge, the operative would drop the net, then jump down
straight into the gondola and jab him with a mantzeni I la-smeared needle ... You're
absolutely right, chief - this adventure of his was a total gamble, a trap for fools. The leper
diversion was very good, but that doesn't change the fact that no professional would have
risked his neck like that. He is, indeed, only an amateur - a brilliant and lucky one, but he'll
be lucky once or twice and the third time he'll break his neck ..."

"Look at that," Almandin interrupted, pointing with his eyes across the square, "our
incomparable Vaddari already has poor Marandil by all the private parts in his rough hand!
This one will get his every time ... By the way, are you going to recruit the captain yourself
or send somebody?"

The cafe looked exactly the same as the one where the DSD bigwigs sat - the same
wicker chairs, the same striped awning - but the mood at the table was much less
celebratory. The Gondorian station chief sat in stunned silence, staring at the badge on the
table in front of him (Karanir, Sergeant of the Secret Guard of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone)
and nodding dumbly to the phrases Vaddari was doling out:

"Today the baron was simply checking whether you mistook him for someone else
back at the Seahorse Tavern, or were actually hunting him. Now it's clear, so he's sending
you this badge and the following message, quote: T never bothered you, but if you want

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war, you'll get one. Since seven dead bodies isn't enough for you, I'll hunt your people
throughout Umbar, and you'll find out what a lone master can do to a bunch of fat bums.'
But these are your affairs, I don't care about them. We have our own business."

"What business?" It looked like Marandil did not care any more. Even his
musclemen, watching from a table in another comer, could see that the boss was in bad
shape.

"Very simple. If Tangorn failed to meet me, that's one thing. Whereas if he did but
you guys messed up and didn't twig who the gondolier was - that's quite another. Dunno
about your head, but you'll lose your officer's cords for sure. I'm gonna have to write my
report about the meeting now, since Tangorn' s letter arrived at our station by regular mail
and was duly logged ... Stop this crap! Signal your gorillas to sit down - I'm not alone
here, either! You think offing me will save you? Good ... yes, like that ... sit down
quietly. What's with this northern habit of grabbing by force what you can buy? It doesn't
matter any for my report who the gondolier was . . . Well? Say something!"

"I don't understand."

"Man, this screw-up must've struck you dumb. It's a simple deal - five dungans, and
there was no gondolier. I mean, of course there was one, but he wasn't Tangorn. Whaddya
think - is your captain's badge worth five dungans?"

By the time Vaddari got back to his inhospitable bachelor pad, he had had enough
time to consider Tangorn' s offer. Of course, it was not to dispatch three Gondorian
operatives and officially declare war on Marandil that the baron risked everything today.
His real objective, strange as it may seem, was simply to meet Vaddari to offer him a certain
delicate assignment. The job was to be fairly simple (although on a tight schedule - only a
week) but extremely dangerous - a single misstep would land the inspector straight in the
basement of 12 Shore Street, a place that would forever stink with blood, burnt flesh, and
vomit. The baron was willing to part with a hundred fifty dungans for success, an
inspector's salary for twelve years of impeccable service. Vaddari weighed the risk and
decided that it was worth it; he was no coward and always finished the job he started.

"Dear Yakudze, your expression suggests that congratulations are in order."

"It was even easier than I expected - he broke immediately. 'If we let Minas Tirith
know about the escaped gondolier, it will demonstrate that you had Tangorn twice and twice
let him escape. No counter-intelligence professional will believe in such a coincidence. The
way it will look to them is that you're working together with the baron and even had seven
subordinates killed in cold blood covering for him. They'll send you to the basement, wring
a confession to working for Emyn Amen out of you, and liquidate you.' This logic seemed
flawless to him and he signed the agency agreement. Please tell Makarioni to speed up the
work in Barangar - the Gondorian spy station is now deaf and blind . . . Do you know what
he wanted as his fee? It turns out that there's another team working in Umbar now,
reporting directly to Minas Tirith ..."

"Ah so."

"Fortunately, those guys aren't interested in Barangar. Rather, they're hunting
Tangorn for some reason and have barred the locals from doing so. Their commander is a
certain lieutenant nicknamed Mongoose, who carries a Y mandate and is a professional of
the highest caliber, according to Marandil."

"Very interesting."

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"Marandil had violated his direct order to forget about Tangorn and may be arrested
once the lieutenant finds out. The captain wants us to get rid of this Mongoose and his men,
just in case. I find this request to be reasonable: we have to protect this scoundrel like the
apple of our eye now, at least until Operation Sirocco. In other words, chief, you'll have to
ask for the Prosecutor General's sanction. Our dearest Almaran is big on law and order and
always makes a major stink over liquidations, but he'll have to go along with us here."

"Aren't you afraid that he'll ask you the following question: how long will a man who
authorized the killing of a Gondorian intelligence officer live, and what kind of death might
befall him?"

"Almaran is a fussy shyster, but he's no coward. Do you remember the Arreno affair,
when he blew off both the threats and the pleas of two senators and sent three zamorro
bosses to the gallows? In Mongoose's case everything is crystal clear: he's here illegally on
false papers and is setting up a kidnapping and a murder. We shouldn't have any problem."

"No problem on that end, true. The real problem is finding these guys."

"Oh, we'll find them!" the Vice-Director of Operations responded somewhat
flippantly. "We're still masters of this city. We'll find Tangorn in a day or two and use him
as bait to catch those hunting him."

"We'll see."

That last comment proved prophetic. DSD operatives scoured Umbar from stem to
stern, but did not find either Tangorn or Mongoose; both lieutenants seemed to have
vanished into thin air. By the fourth day of the search it became clear that neither wanted
man was still in town; most likely the baron's body was at the bottom of a canal while
Mongoose must have already disembarked in Pelargir to report mission accomplished.
Well, good riddance, then - Marandil is out of danger, so why get involved in Gondor-
Ithilien squabbles?

Most interestingly, the Umbar Secret Service's conclusion that Tangorn was no longer
in the city was absolutely correct. By that time the baron was long aboard a felucca named
Flying Fish which he had chartered to lie adrift about ten miles off Cape Jurinjoy south of
Umbar, away from the main sea lanes. The three smugglers crewing the felucca (one Uncle
Sarrakesh and two of his 'nephews') found this pastime strange but kept this opinion to
themselves, rightly believing that a man who paid half-a-hundred dungans for a three- week
charter was entitled not to be bothered with questions or advice. Even if they had
unwittingly blundered into some grandiose affair like the last year's raid on the Republic
Treasury's gold transport ship, their pay was worth that risk; actually, the passenger did not
look like an underworld figure, even though he came recommended by Lame Vittano
himself (the man who was jokingly called 'the Prince of Kharmian' behind his back). The
previous night of the twelfth the crew finally had a chance to demonstrate their skill to their
employer - the Flying Fish slipped into the maze of skerries girding the western side of the
Kharmian Bay right under the noses of the swift coast guard galleys. After the customary
exchange of signals in an inconspicuous cove they took on the baron's mail and then
retreated back beyond Jurinjoy.

One letter was from Vaddari. The inspector reported success: he had found out the
addresses of two Gondorian safe houses and assembled complete information on their
keepers and warning signals. The other inquiry came up empty (as Tangorn had expected):
all persons having anything to do with Aragom's ships had either died from sudden illnesses
or accidents, or else have completely lost all memory of the affair, while all the relevant

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documents in the harbor office, going back years, turned out to have been doctored (without
any visible signs of an alteration); it looked like a whole bunch of Umbarian ships have
never existed. There was more: the two senators Vaddari had felt out on the subject insisted
that while they themselves could not remember the details of the Senate session which held
the vote to support Gondor in the War of the Ring, such details could surely be found in the
Senate minutes of February 29^\ the honorable legislators treated all attempts to remind
them that this year was not a leap one as a bad joke. The whole business reeked of some
ominous witchery, so Tangom wholeheartedly approved of Vaddari' s decision to avoid
drawing any further attention to his interest in the ship affair, lest another fatal accident
befall him.

This made the second letter even more valuable. It contained information gathered by
Alviss and relayed through Vaddari and further through Vittano's men. She had talked to
her numerous friends in the arts and business circles on a topic innocuous enough not to
alarm any of the spooks likely to keep tabs on her these days, whether from DSD or 12
Shore Street. As usual, the most important information was lying openly in plain sight, and
it painted a most interesting picture.

About three years ago, as the war was heating up in the North, a fad for all things
Elvish swept the Umbarian youth. The simpler ones made do with Elvish music and
symbols, whereas the more sophisticated were offered a comprehensive ideology. In Alviss'
telling, at least, this ideology was a screwball concoction of the teachings of Khandian
dervishes ("own nothing, fear nothing, want nothing") and Mordorian anarchists
(reorganization of society on the basis of absolute personal freedom and social equality),
seasoned with bucolic claptrap about "all-encompassing unity with Nature." One could only
wonder why the young Umbarian intellectuals went for such primitive drivel, but they did,
big time. Moreover, it soon transpired that not sharing those views was unseemly and even
dangerous: all persons who had the ill grace of expressing anything other than admiration
and support for them were ostracized and persecuted - "children are always cruel."

A year later it was all over as suddenly as it began. All that remained of the
movement (and it was, beyond doubt, an organized movement) was the Elfinar school of
painting - a rather interesting version of primitivism - and a dozen crazy gurus ecstatically
preaching the impending conversion of the entire Middle Earth into Enchanted Forests;
however, their main activities were denouncing each other and screwing their stoned
underage followers. The serious young people have dropped all these games completely and
returned to the bosom of their families, from which they had been totally estranged over the
course of the previous year. Their explanations did not vary much - from "devils made me
do it" to "whoever is not a revolutionary when young has no heart; whoever is not a
conservative when old has no brain" - but what parents care for elaborate explanations when
they have their dear child back at the family table?

All of the above could have been written off as nonsense that deserved no special
attention (youth fads are legion) if not for a peculiar circumstance - all of the 'returnees,'
including the offspring of the most prominent families of the Republic, have suddenly
developed an unusual penchant for government service, which was something previously
unheard of among the elite youth. A transformation of a semi-bohemian dreamer or society
playboy into a model public official generally looks weird; when such cases number in the
dozens and hundreds, they make a disturbing pattern. Add to that the fact that all these
youngsters have made brilliant careers in the past two years (while exhibiting an amazing

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degree of unity and mutual assistance, better than any zamorro), advancing quite far up the
administrative ladder, and the picture turned really scary. There was no doubt that in seven
or eight years precisely those boys would hold all key government positions - from the
Foreign Ministry to the Admiralty and from the Treasury to the Secret Service - and then
they will have acquired all the levers of real power in the Republic without firing a shot.
The most fantastic part was that no one in Umbar seemed to care about it, other than some
ancient minor bureaucrats mumbling sentimentally: "We really shouldn't chastise our young
men! Look at them working for the good of the Motherland!"

Tangorn put down Alviss' list of about three dozen 'returnees' and was now watching
a seagull trailing the Flying Fish, deep in thought. The bird hung motionless in the windy
blue expanse, resembUng a checkmark in a margin - the checkmark that he should now
make next to the name of his target. The problem was not the difficulty of this particular
choice; the sad part was that he felt a genuine affinity to these boys and girls, based on what
little he knew about them. Money- shunning idealists whose honesty could compare only to
their naivete ... Unfortunately, he had no chance to explain to them that the real Lorien
(rather than the one created by their youthful imaginations) had not a trace of either freedom
or classless equality, as far as he could tell, or that the 'corrupt rotten pseudo-democracy'
that had reared them to its woe nevertheless had certain advantages over theocratic
dictatorship.

So: he is looking for the most likeable and maybe even kindred-spirited people in
Umbar.

He is looking for them in order to kill them.

What was that Haladdin used to say? "Do the ends justify the means? Stated
generally, the problem lacks a solution."

Chapter 45

Umbar, Lamp Street
Night of June 14, 3019

The Umbarians all say that whoever had not seen the Big Carnival had not seen
anything worthwhile in his life. Arrogant as it sounds, there are solid grounds for saying so.
It is not the beauty of the fireworks and costumed processions, although they are
magnificent. The most important part is that on the second Sunday of June all societal
barriers crumble into dust: streetwalkers turn into highborn damsels and the damsels turn
into streetwalkers, while a couple of comedians performing a skit making fun of famously
slow-witted inhabitants of the Peninsula may turn out to be a senator and a member of the
paupers' guild. It is a day when time runs backward and everyone can reclaim their
wonderfully reckless youth, like the warm gentle lips of some girl in a black mask you just
stole from her previous partner; it is a day when profiting is sinful and stealing is just so not
cool. On that day everyone is allowed to do anything except breach another's incognito . . .

In that sense the actions of two noble sirs who had fallen behind a bead- strung
firecracker-popping procession making its way down Lamp Street at the Mint Alley
intersection should be termed improper, although said actions were apparently well-
intentioned. Those two persons - one in a multicolored bodysuit of a circus gymnast,
another decked out in jester's bells head to toe - were bending over a third one, in a blue-
and-gold stargazer's cloak, who was prostrated on the ground. Not too skillfully trying to

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revive him ("Hey, man, wake up!"), they have removed his silvery mask; it was plain that
the would-be rescuers themselves were barely on their feet.

A chirping flock of three girls in assorted dominos emerged from the alley straight
onto the scene. "Partners, partners!" they chorused, clapping, "and just the right number!
The gymnast is mine! Come along, pretty boy!"

"Easy, sisters, easy!" the gymnast responded. "See, our third friend is kinda out of it

"Oh, poor kid! Drink too much?"

"Dunno. Just been dancing his feet off in the procession and then suddenly whoa! and
he's down. Not as if he's been drinking much ..."

"Maybe I can bring him back to life with a kiss?" the blue domino purred coquettishly.
The jester grinned: "Go ahead, baby - maybe he'll throw up, it'd help for sure!"
"Yuck! Jerk ..." The girl was offended.

"There, my beauties, don't get all upset, all right?" the gymnast said amiably, hugging

the purple domino a bit below the waist with a steady arm (rewarded with an immediate
sultry "Ah, the cheek!"). "You're all total hits, we love you all to death and all that. Got
any wine? ... Too bad. Here's what we'll do: you take the Mint to the waterfront, buy
enough Niimen for all of us," with those words he handed the girl a small pouch full of
small silver coins, "and, most importantly, stake out some seats close to the musicians.
We'll catch up with you in a few minutes, as soon as we drag this character to that lawn over
there, let him sleep it off on the grass . . . Imagine being saddled with this on Carnival! . . ."

When the girls disappeared down the alley, their heels clicking loudly on the
flagstones, the jester let out his breath and shook his head, as if disbelieving his luck:
"Phew! I thought that was it and we'd have to off them ..."

"Yeah, I know you like swift and simple solutions," grumbled the gymnast, "that's
why I have to watch you like a hawk. Did you stop to think of how we'd get rid of three
bodies here, eh?"

"No idea," the other admitted honestly. "So what now, chief - are we all right?"

"Not sure, so - no wet work, but following up on them is necessary. Who the hell
knows who these girls are, though they don't look like cover. Follow them to the waterfront
and double back immediately if anything is amiss."

"What about you, all by yourself?"

"Mantzenilla is good stuff, the guy won't come around for at least an hour. Here, help
me pick him up," the gymnast crouched by the still stargazer, "I'll manage the hundred
yards to our door somehow."

The stargazer' s surfacing from his drugged stupor was slow and labored, but the
moment he showed signs of life he got his nostrils pinched and a draught of cola-based
stimulant poured down his throat - time was short, the interrogation could not wait. He
coughed and hacked (some of the burning liquid went down the wrong pipe) and opened his
eyes. The first glance told him clearly enough the predicament he was in: a windowless
room (but still more likely a ground floor than a basement), two men wearing carnival
outfits of a gymnast and a jester; wait, wait . . . yes, these two had danced in the same
procession with him, and then - right! - this gymnast gave him some wine to drink from a
glass flask with merry eastern dragons on its sides. And an excellent wine it was, except
two draughts knocked him out to then find himself who knows where with his arms securely

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tied to an armchair, with a nausea-inducing array of tools in a large tin bowl on a stool in
front of him. A cold hand seemed to grab his guts at a mere look at them. How's this
possible - he remembers the gymnast drinking from the same flask? An antidote? Actually,
who cares, the most important part is who these guys are - the Department or 12 Shore
Street? He looked away, at the fire-lit masked face of the jester, who was busily stirring the
coals in a large floor censer, and shuddered almost violently enough to spasm his back
muscles.

The gymnast broke the silence: "Mister Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign
Ministry, if I'm not mistaken?" He was sitting a bit away, attentively looking at the
prisoner.

"You're not mistaken. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The Junior
Secretary has gathered his wits and displayed only surprise with no outward sign of fear.

"My name will mean nothing to you. I represent the Secret Guard of the Reunited
Kingdom and hope to work with you. The digs here are not as luxurious as at 12 Shore
Street, of course, but the basement is almost as good."

"Your recruiting methods are rather strange." Algali shrugged, and something akin to
relief showed in his face. "You should realize already that it's much easier to buy than to
rob here in the South. You want me for your network? Sure! Why stage this stupid show?"

"The show was not as stupid as it might seem. The thing is, what we need is not the
Khand-related information that you have access to at work, but something very different."

The Junior Secretary raised a questioning eyebrow: "I don't understand."

"Quit mucking around - you've already understood everything, unless you're an idiot.
We need the Elvish network of which you're a part - names, safe houses, passwords.
Well?"

"Elvish network? Have you guys sniffed too much kokkaineT Algali grunted
nonchalantly - too nonchalantly, given the situation.

"Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I'd much rather not have to use any of this,"
the gymnast gestured towards the bowl and the censer, "but there are only two options here.
Option one: you tell us everything you know, then go home and keep working for us.
Option two is you tell us everything you know anyway, with our help," another nod at the
censer, "but then you won't leave here. You can imagine how you'll look afterwards, so
why traumatize your Elvish friends? I like option one better; how about you?"

"So do I, but I have nothing to tell you either way. You've made a mistake, I'm not
the person you want."

"Is that your last word? I mean - the last before we begin?"

"Yes. It's a mistake, I've never heard of any Elvish network."

"You just blew it, buddy!" the gymnast chortled in satisfaction. "See, were you a
regular Umbarian official, you'd either be having hysterics now, or inventing this network
out of your head on the spot. We'd be catching your inconsistencies, you'd then be lying
anew ... but you aren't even trying to buy time. So even if I had any doubts about you
before, I don't now. What have you to say to that?"

Algali was silent - there was nothing to say and no need to say anything. Most
importantly, a strange tranquility descended on him. The Power of which he was a part
came to his rescue; he felt its presence almost physically as a touch of a mother's warm
hands: "Please endure it, son! It won't be too terrible and you have to endure it for only a
short time. Don't be afraid, for I am here with you!" Amazingly, the gymnast detected the

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invisible presence of this Power, too: one glance at Algali's serene smile was enough for
him to understand that the damn kid has just slipped through his fingers. Once beyond his
power, he could do anything to him now - the prisoner will die without saying a word. This
happens rarely, but it does happen. Then he simply punched the man tied to the armchair in
the face, putting all his fury into the blow: "Son of a bitch. Elvish whore!" - thereby
acknowledging his defeat.

"An Elvish whore? How interesting!"

Nobody had noticed when a fourth man, this one dressed like a mashtang bandit,
slipped through the door. The mashtang' s sword, however, was definitely not of costume
quality; an application of its hilt to the gymnast's skull immediately put the latter out of
commission. The jester had the time to back away and get his blade out, but this did not
help him: he was hopelessly outclassed as a fencer, so in less than ten seconds the guest cut
open the host's chest with a long diagonal lunge, splattering blood in all directions,
including on the stargazer. After carefully wiping the sword with a rag he picked up from
the floor, the mashtang gazed at the prisoner with gloomy surprise:

"As I understand it, fair sir, these guys were trying to implicate you as belonging to
the Elvish underground. Is that so?"

Chapter 46

"I don't understand." Algali's diction left much to be desired; he was feeling his loose
teeth with his tongue, trying to assess the damage.

"Damn it, young man, I'm not enough of an idiot to ask you whether you're part of an
underground! I'm asking - what did the men from Aragom's Secret Guard want with you?"

Algali was silently trying to assess the situation. The whole thing reeked of a badly
staged play, complete with the valiant white-clad rescuer arriving out of a chimney at the
precise moment when the princess is already in the hands of the hairy bandit chief but
somehow has not yet been deflowered. At least, it would appear this way if not for a few
things: the sword with which the mashtang has already cut his bonds was real, and so had
the thrust to the jester's chest been (judging by the sound), and the blood Algali wiped from
his right cheek was real blood rather than cranberry juice. It did look like he got mixed up
into someone else's spat; in any case, it was not going to get any worse than it already was.

"By the way, I am Baron Tangom. What's your name, fair youngster?"

"Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, at your service."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. Let's analyze this situation. My sudden
appearance in this house has to look staged - such coincidences happen only in books - so I
must look a very suspicious character to you ..."

"Why, Baron, I'm extremely grateful to you," Algali bowed with exaggerated
ceremoniousness. "Were it not for your noble intervention, my end would've been tragic,
indeed. Would you believe that these people have decided that I belong to some kind of an
Elvish organization ..."

"Now let's look at this from my vantage point. Forgive me, but I'll assume that my
Gondorian 'colleagues' were not mistaken ... Don't interrupt me!" There was a distinct
clang of commanding metal in the mashtang' s voice. "So: I came to Umbar from IthiUen on
a special mission to establish contact with the Elves and convey certain vital information to
them - for a price, of course. Unfortunately, Aragom has learned about my mission and is
trying to prevent the transfer of this information, since for him it's also a matter of life and

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death. His Secret Guard is hunting me. Three days ago they tried to arrest me at the
Seahorse Tavern, and we've been playing cat-and-mouse all over town ever since. In the
process, the mouse had turned out to be a scorpion, so these games have so far cost them
seven dead - eight, including this one." He nodded nonchalantly towards the jester.
"Anyway, tonight I finally discovered one of their hideouts - 4 Lamp Street - and naturally
decided to pay them a visit. What do 1 behold? 1 find the Secret Guardsmen interrogating -
so attentively as to neglect guarding the place - a man whom they believe to belong to the
very same Elvish network I've been trying to locate for the last two weeks without success!
So which of the two coincidences looks more suspicious to you?"
"Well, speaking theoretically ..."

"Of course, purely theoretically - we have agreed to stipulate your membership in the
Elvish network only for the purposes of this discussion. In any event, I'm inclined to
believe your story; to be honest, I have no options. First, you need to hide . . ."

"No way! All these spy games of yours ..."

"Are you a complete idiot? Once you're in the sights of 12 Shore Street, that's it,
you're doomed. You will only prove your non-membership in the Elvish network by dying
under torture, whereupon they'll shrug and apologize for their mistake - maybe. So even if
you know nothing of this, you have to find some hidey-hole; and I'm not about to
understand your problems and offer you one of mine, mind you. Whereas if you're indeed
from the Elvish underground, then this miraculous rescue means that you have a long and
elaborate debriefing by your own security service - or whatever you call it - to look forward
to. In that case, you'll simply relate all you've witnessed so far and tell them the following:
Baron Tangom from IthiUen is seeking to contact Elandar."

"I've never heard this name."

"You couldn't possibly have, not at your level of clearance. So: if your commanders
decide that this merits their attention, I'll be waiting for you at seven on Friday evenings at
the Green Mackerel restaurant. Make sure to tell them that I won't deal with anyone but
Elandar himself: I'm not interested in flunkies."

After leading the stargazer out on the porch, into the night streaked with fireworks
flashes, the mashtang halted his protege: "Wait up. First, remember this house, the address,
and all that - trust me, you'll need it. Second, once I find out from this gymnast why 12
Shore Street decided to target Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign Ministry, I'll put his
written testimony into a letter that I'll leave for you at Mama Madino's establishment in the
Kharmian Village. All right, lad, go now. I'm going back to talk to our mutual friend while
the coals are still hot in that censer."

It did not look like the Junior Secretary took the mashtang' s warning to heart. He
wandered the night streets for a while (probably and laughably looking for a tail), and then
went into the Shooting Star bar, the favorite hangout of the art and bohemian crowds; the
place was always crowded and now, on Carnival night, positively packed. Here, in the light,
one could see that Algali did not escape unscathed: his hands shook visibly. Waiting for the
bartender to mix him a Forget-me-not - a complex cocktail of eleven ingredients - he kept
mechanically stacking a few coins, but his disobedient fingers kept knocking the stack over.
The bartender looked at this building exercise, grunted and put the cocktail aside: "Lemme
pour you some rum, lad, it'll do you right ..." He spent a couple of morose hours in a
comer talking to no one, then suddenly ordered another cocktail, after which he left the bar.

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took back alleys to the Bridge of Fulfilled Wishes, totally deserted at this predawn hour, and
disappeared.

Had someone been watching Algali then, he would for sure have referred to
supernatural forces: the man simply vanished. Theoretically one could posit a jump into a
gondola passing under the bridge, but the suspended span of the Bridge of Fulfilled Wishes
is thirty feet above water; a Foreign Ministry clerk is likely incapable of such acrobatic
tricks, plus the feat would require precise synchronization. At any rate, all other
explanations would be no less fantastic. Of course, one could simply say meaningfully:
"Elvish magic!" but those words do not explain anything; in other words, how Algali made
it to a plain fisherman cabin on the shore of Barangar Bay remained a mystery.

Two hours later he stood naked in the middle of the cabin, eyes closed and arms
outstretched. A slight black-haired girl who somehow resembled a sad vivino bird was
slowly moving her palms along Algali' s back a hair away from it. Having examined his
entire body in this manner, she shook her head negatively: "He's clean. No magic dust."

"Thank you, baby!" The man who sat in the comer on a dried-out barrel had a firm,
calm face of a captain on a storm-shaken bridge. "Are you tired?"

"Not very." She tried to smile, but the smile came out wan.

"Go rest an hour or so."

"I'm not tired, honest!"

"Go rest. That's an order. Then check his clothes once again, thread by thread - I'm
still concerned that they may have planted a beacon on him." He turned to a young man in a
bat costume: "What's your story?"

"Counter-surveillance detected no tail, at least from the Shooting Star to the bridge. I
followed him, since anyway I had to remove the rope ladder he used to go down to the
gondola, and it all went smoothly."

"Any problems?"

"None. We alerted a backup team the moment we got the danger signal - the Forget-
me-not plus the tumbling coins. Over the second cocktail the bartender told him which post
of the railing had the ladder tied to it, and it all went down flawlessly."

"All right, you're all dismissed for now. Algali, put something on and tell your story.
You have my complete attention."

With one last glance at the back of the Junior Secretary receding down Lamp Street,
the man who called himself Baron Tangorn (it was, in fact, him) returned to the house.
Work in the basement was in full swing: the gymnast and the jester, both alive and well,
were meticulously cleaning up the room. The jester was already out of his bloody clothes
(the baron's sword had pierced a bladder filled with pig blood and hidden on his chest) and
was now taking off the mithril mail, grimacing with pain. Seeing Tangorn, he turned to
show him his side, which sported a large purple bruise:

"Look what you done, boss! Betcha you broke my rib!"

"The dungans you scored cover pain and suffering. If you're angling for a bonus,
forget it."

"Really, man - whyn't you just stab me, careful-like? Why lay it on for real? What if
that mail shirt of yours broke?"

"Well, it didn't," the baron responded matter-of-factly. "By the way, hand it over."

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He had painted the mail with black enamel, so that it looked exactly like ancient
small-mesh Mordorian armor - he had no desire to demonstrate mithril to his partners.

He turned to the gymnast, who was carefully wiping blood splatters off the armchair.
"Inspector! Don't forget to put the censer back where it was."

"Listen, Baron," the other responded irritably, "don't teach me how to clean up a
scene!" Then he recited a couple of well-known saws about an insolent son giving his father
sex advice and about the main reason for not making love on the Three Stars Embankment
being the passerby who would drive you nuts with their advice. Tangorn had to admit that
the man had a point.

"Where did you get all this?" Tangorn fingered one of the ominous-looking pullers he
fished randomly from the tin bowl.

"Just bought all his tools off a market dentist for three castamir^, plus added some
handyman's tools. Add a little dried blood and it all looks very presentable, if you don't
look too closely."

"Very well, guys, thank you for your service." With those words he handed Vaddari
and his henchman a bag of gold apiece. "Will ten minutes be enough for you to finish
cleaning up?" The inspector thought about it, then nodded. "Excellent. Your ship," the
baron turned to the jester, "sails with the dawn. In those lands fifty dungans is quite enough
to set up a tavern or an inn and forever forget Umbar and its policemen. My advice is not to
publish any memoirs of this night, though."

"What's 'publish memoirs,' eh, boss?"

"That's when someone gets drunk and starts telling stories of his Ufe. Or gets too
smart and sends a letter to police."

"Whatcha saying, boss? I never rat on my pardners!" The man was upset.

"Keep it up, then. Mind that Lame Vittano owes me a few and considers himself my
brother, so if anything goes wrong, he'll find you even in the Far West, never mind
Vendotenia."

"You dissing me, boss?"

"I'm not 'dissing,' I'm warning. Sometimes, you know, people want to get paid twice
for the same job. All right, guys, farewell and hope we never meet again."

With those words the baron walked out, hesitating at the door for a few seconds: the
job awaiting him on the second floor required more than just guts.

Chapter 47

The thing was that the house at 4 Lamp Street was indeed a Gondorian safe house, but
its true owners - two Secret Guard sergeants - have taken no part in the above events,
having spent all that time bound and gagged in the living room upstairs. The sergeants were
captured in a lightning-fast operation devised by Vaddari and Tangorn and carried out with
the help of a robber nicknamed Knuckles, who needed to change climate soon. The baron
needed a third partner not only for the latter' s skills, but also to make the number of Algali's
abductors match the true number of the house's residents. Since one of the kidnappers has
been 'killed' by Tangorn as part of the hoax, one of the sergeants had to die by the sword
now. Truly, the World is Text, and there's no getting away from that, thought the baron as
he opened the door to the living room.

"Do you recognize me, boys?" Tangorn took off his mask, so the prisoners had a
good chance to compare his visage to the search descriptions while he was getting their gags

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out. One shrank back and the other went stone-faced; it was clear that they recognized him
and expected nothing nice. "Shall we talk first or do I just dice you up?"

The one who had shrunk back erupted in a volley of disjointed curses, obviously
trying desperately to push back fear. The other, though, seemed like a tough nut: he gazed
at Tangom levelly, and then spat: "Do what you need to do, rascal! But remember that we'll
catch up with you one day, and then we'll hang you by the feet, as befits a traitor!"

"Yes, most likely that's how it's going to be, at some point," the baron shrugged,
unsheathing his sword (the choice of victim was clear now), "but you won't be there to see
it, I guarantee that."

With those words he stabbed the prisoner in the chest and pulled the blade out
immediately; the blood gush was spectacular. Over the last few years the third sword of
Gondor had killed lots of people in battle, but never before did he have to dispatch a helpless
unarmed man, albeit a mortal enemy, in cold blood; he understood clearly that he was taking
another step beyond the pale, but there was no choice. The only break he allowed himself
was to stab precisely in the upper right chest; such a wound is not always fatal, so if the guy
was one of Fortune's favorites, he could possibly make it. The baron did not need a corpse
per se, but the wound had to be real, lest the Elves later suspect the whole thing to be a
show.

When he turned to the other sergeant, bloody sword in hand, the man futilely tried to
push himself away with bound feet and, as Knuckles would say, spilled his guts like a
hoisted pig. Swapping the variables does work sometimes . . . Tangorn had to interrupt his
revelations, since he was not very interested in all the goings-on at 12 Shore Street.

"Fine. When did your station start investigating the Elvish underground?"

"I haven't heard anything about that. Maybe others ..."

"What do you mean, you haven't heard? Why did you kidnap an Elf, then?"

The man was dumbfounded: "What Elf?"

"All right, not an Elf - the guy from the Elvish underground that I just let out of your
basement."

"I . . . I don't understand! We never heard about any Elves!"

"Ah, so I must be hallucinating!" Tangorn smiled ominously. "Or maybe someone
planted him in your basement, eh?"

"Listen, I told you all I know; if Marandil gets his hands on me, I'm finished. Why
would I lie?"

"Enough of this crap! I'll have you know that I've located this house of yours by
following that guy from the Elvish underground - Algali, Junior Secretary of the Foreign
Ministry. And I saw with my own eyes how two costumed guys first gave him some potion
and then dragged him into this mansion of yours. So I decided to pay you a visit . . . Unless
there's two more of your people hiding somewhere around here?"

"No, I swear by anything, no! We haven't kidnapped anybody!" The sergeant's eyes
looked mad, with good reason.

"Well, well, looks like I've finally found something worthwhile in the pile of scraps
you're trying to feed me. Looks like this is your main operation and you're ready to
sacrifice anything to cover it up ... except now I'm really interested, so don't expect to die
as quickly and easily as your buddy here! Know what I'm going to do to you first?"

The sergeant was one of those people who think much better when they are scared. To
avoid the nightmare the baron had promised he instantaneously invented his own version of

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events: they had Marandil's undocumented oral order to capture Algali, Junior Secretary of
the Foreign Ministry. Tangorn pointed out some inconsistencies, the man immediately
made corrections to his tale, and this back-and-forth went on until the story became logically
consistent and sounded true. In reality, baron's deft leading questions simply prompted the
sergeant to put together the legend he himself had developed in the past few days.

After the sergeant had twice committed the legend to paper, Tangorn renewed his
bonds, took both sergeants' badges (the talkative one was Aravan, the tough one was
Morimir; the baron checked the latter' s carotid artery while removing the chain from around
his neck and found a pulse), and left the house to his involuntary interlocutor's frenzied
cries: "Untie me! Let me escape!" Actually, for Tangorn's plans, the later the man fell into
his friends' hands at 12 Shore Street, the better; the baron took care to find a policeman (not
an easy task on Carnival night) and let him know that the door to 4 Lamp Street was open
slightly and someone was calling for help inside: "Doesn't sound like a joke - perhaps some
drunk is misbehaving?" Then he put Aravan' s testimony and badge into the letter destined
for Kharmian Village. The other copy he addressed to the ambassador of the Reunited
Kingdom: let him and Marandil try and puzzle it all out. Bafflement breeds inaction, as is
well known.

Tangorn made it back to the Flying Fish by dawn and fell asleep like a log. The deed
was done and all he had to do was wait: the lure he had dropped - the real name of one of
the underground leaders - was too good to be passed up. The Elves could not avoid the
meeting; at the very least they would show up to kill him. Their checking will probably take
a few days, so he should only go to the Green Mackerel next Friday, the twentieth. Now he
had enough time to plan both the talk with Elandar and the cover and escape routes.

". . . He will only talk to Elandar himself, as he's not interested in flunkies."

"You are mad!" The gaze of the Great Magister was terrible. "He can't possibly
know this name, nor can anyone outside Lorien!"

"Nevertheless, that's what he said, milord. Should we contact him?"

"Definitely, but 1 will do it myself - this is serious business. Either he really does
have some important information, in which case we need to get it, or he is provoking us and
we must liquidate him before it's too late. How long will it take your security service to
verify this weird miraculous rescue story?"

"1 believe that four days will be sufficient, milord. You should be able to visit the
Green Mackerel this Friday."

"One more thing. This Algali ... he has heard a name he has no business knowing.
Make sure that he never tells it to anyone."

"Yes, milord." The chief of security looked away momentarily. "If you think it's
necessary ..."

"I do think so. The kid has been utterly compromised: both the Secret Guard and DSD
will be hunting him now. We have no right to endanger the entire underground. Yes, I
know what you're thinking: had it been an Elf, I'd behave differently, right?"

"No, milord," the other replied woodenly. "The safety of the Organization is
paramount, that's basic. 1 only wish to remind you that it is Algali who is supposed to meet
Tangorn and also to pick up the letter in Kharmian Village, so we'll have to wait at least
until Friday to do it . . ."

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Yes, thought the Great Magister with fleeting pride, we have really trained them well,
and in just two years. The magic phrase 'there's such a thing as necessity' accomplishes
everything. Who would' ve thought that all those liberal humanists will be so eager to stand
at attention and salute, and find a deep sacred meaning in doing so, one that's beyond their
weak civilian minds . . . Actually, this Algali is lucky, if you think about it. They are all
dead men anyway, but he will at least die happy, full of illusions and believing in a glorious
future, whereas the others will have to behold what they've done and realize whose road
they've paved before they die ...

"Barrel of pus!! Can't blame those Gondorian idiots, but where the hell were you,

Yakudze?"

It was not often that the Vice-Director of Operations saw his superior in such a state.
The report of Tangom's night raid on 4 Lamp Street brought Almandin to a boiling point,
nor did the news from Minas Tirith brought over by Dimitriadis (Vice-Director of Political
Intelligence) do anything to improve his mood.

"Do you at least realize that this psycho and his vendetta will bury Marandil in a day
or two, together with Operation Sirocco?"

"I'm afraid Tangom's no psycho, nor is this a vendetta; we're just unable to figure out
his plan. Amazing, but this amateur keeps winning round after round! It's enough to make
one believe that he's being assisted by Higher Powers . . ."

"All right, enough mysticism. How's our captain doing?"

"If the baron intended to break him, he has fully succeeded. Aravan's written
testimony just about finished the poor guy off: he swears that he gave no such order and that
all this is news to him. Madness, hallucinatory madness! ... Perhaps that elfinar will clear
things up some once we find him."

"Leave Algali alone!" Almandin snapped. "He's got nothing to do with making your
agent Marandil safe. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" the operative answered, looking down morosely.

Once again he hit the same wall. When two years ago he put his first report on the
pro-Elvish organizations in Umbar on the Director's desk, he was ordered to immediately
halt all work in that direction and deactivate already planted agents. Ever since then he
regularly came across traces of those secret societies, like mouse droppings in an old
cupboard, yet every time he was told not to stick his fink's snout into high politics: "This is
Dimitriadis' job." It seemed plausible that the Vice-Director of Political Intelligence was
simultaneously being told: "This is Yakudze' s job," but this guess was quite impossible to
verify - private consultations between Vice-Directors (as well as all such contacts between
employees outside of their chain of command) were strictly forbidden by the Department's
rules and were punished as violations of umberto. Very well, he decided at some point with
relief that surprised him; Almandin must have his reasons that I can't see from my vantage
point - perhaps a secret alliance with the Elves against Gondor or something like that. After
all, I did my job as a detective, now it's let the bosses and analytics think. What was it that
the unforgettable Tin Man used to say? "The cock's job is to crow, not to summon the
dawn."

"Yakudze, do you think that the captain can keep working?"

"He's totally demoralized right now; he whines and begs to be allowed to flee
immediately, as per agreement."

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"Exactly!" In annoyance, the Director slapped the morning report from Carnero's
headquarters. "It's getting harder and harder for Marandil to cover up the goings-on in
Barangar Bay. His underlings aren't blind . . ." Underlings aren't blind - is that a hint at me
and the Elves? Yakudze hastily banished the thought. "Add to that a string of spectacular
failures and a pile of dead bodies, thanks to that swashbuckler from Ithilien. Soon our
captain will be stripped of his officer's cords and court-martialed. Long story short: find
Tangorn immediately and isolate him at all costs! All costs, you hear? If you can do it
without bloodshed - be my guest, but if not, then just liquidate him to hell and be done with
it! ... Now, about the Gondorian station. If needs be, can we simply block their
communications with the continent, and extend that blockade throughout mid-July, when
Sirocco is scheduled to begin?"

"I think so. We will cut off the land routes via Chevelgar while Makarioni will
contact the Coast Guard and put them on high alert."

"Good. Now: since Tangorn is in town after all, then Mongoose should be, too. Got
any news on that front?"

"Kind of . . . We have a very faint lead. For the past few days my people have been
watching Tangorn' s girlfriend Alviss and have discovered a strange detail, seemingly a trifle

Even the most banal of measures, like placing the guards on high alert, can sometimes
yield unexpected results. While looking through the daily news summary on the morning of
the 20* Yakudze came across a Coast Guard report: on the night of the 19* they have
intercepted the Flying Fish, the felucca of a well-known smuggler Uncle Sarrakesh, in an
attempt to enter Kharmian Bay. There were two crewmen on board beside the skipper. The
felucca's hold was absolutely empty, giving the authorities no excuse to impound the vessel,
and Uncle Sarrakesh will have to be let go by the evening. The report mentioned, however,
that the Flying Fish attempted to evade the coast guard galley by hugging the reef-strewn
shore of the Peninsula; it is possible, the guards concluded, that there may have been a
passenger on the felucca that had escaped by swimming ashore in the dark.

It is hard to say what attracted the DSD Vice-Director's attention to this banal harbor
story; perhaps some faint premonition. As far as he remembered. Uncle Sarrakesh was
connected to Lame Vittano's zamorro and specialized in smuggling proscribed steel
weaponry to Harad in exchange for cola nuts whose import was the Republic's monopoly.
Cola was very expensive stuff, so the inbound shipments of contraband were typically small
(no more than ten grain sacks) and it was a task of two or three minutes to heave them
overboard in case of trouble, so the emptiness of the Flying Fish's hold did not surprise the
Vice-Director. The strange thing was that the guardsmen's specially trained dog had not
detected any cola smell on board, which prompted him to give his full attention to the idea
that the felucca's only cargo had been an unknown passenger. At any other time this would
have been a trifle, but not now, when the Department was carefully cutting off all of the 12
Shore Street's possible communication channels and searching for Gondorian illegals from
Mongoose's team. Yakudze decided that any leniency was inappropriate at this crucial
juncture and ordered an enhanced interrogation of the captured smugglers. A couple of
hours later one of Sarrakesh' s 'nephews' broke and described their escaped passenger;
Yakudze had no trouble recognizing Baron Tangorn from the description.

Upon such recognition he cursed, shortly but colorfully, like a sailor, as he realized
that he could not get to Tangorn any time soon. Sarrakesh was from the Peninsula;

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undoubtedly he had sent Tangom to his relatives in one of the mountain villages. Even if
Yakudze found out exactly which one (which would be very tough), it would not do him any
good - the mountain men never surrendered a fugitive to the police. Their law of hospitality
was sacred and inviolate, and there could be no negotiation on that point; to arrest Tangom
by force he would need not a couple of gendarmes, but a minor army operation, which no
one would authorize. Send nin 'yokve assassins to the mountains? That would work as an
extreme measure, but ... All right, let's risk a little wait until the baron tries to get back to
the Islands - he did try to get straight into Kharmian Bay last night despite obvious danger.
For a while he has no contact with Vittano's smugglers, so the sea route is closed to him,
whereas to seal off the Long Dam is easy as pie.

"Find me everything we have on Uncle Sarrakesh's relatives and friends," the Vice-
Director ordered his assistant. "I doubt he has a separate dossier, so you'll have to comb all
the materials on Lame Vittano's zamorro. Next: who's in charge of agents among the
Peninsula's mountain men - Ras-shua, is it?"

Chapter 48

Umbar Peninsula, near Iguatalpa Village
June 24, 3019

The chestnut tree in whose shade they camped was at least two hundred years old. All
by themselves, its roots were holding together a huge chunk of the slope above the path
leading from Iguatalpa to the pass, and doing it well: the spring rains, unusually heavy this
year, had not left any landslides or fresh holes here. From time to time a breeze rustled the
luxurious crown of leaves, and then sunspots would drop silently through it down on the
yellowish-cream fallen foliage that had accumulated at the foot of the trunk between the
mighty roots. Tangorn stretched pleasurably on this wonderful bed (after all, the local paths
were not kind on his wounded leg), leaned back on his left elbow and immediately felt some
discomfort under it. A bump? A stone? For a couple of seconds the baron lazily considered
his dilemma: should he disturb this thick elastic carpet in search of the problem or just move
himself a bit to the right? He looked around, sighed, and moved - he did not feel like
disturbing anything here, even such a trifle.

The view he saw was amazingly serene. From here, even the Uruapan waterfall (three
hundred feet of materialized fury of the river gods trapped by their mountain brethren)
looked simply like a cord of silver running down the dark green cloth of the wooded slope.
A little to the right, forming the centerpiece of the composition, the towers of the Uatapao
monastery rose above the misty chasm - an antique candelabrum of dark copper all covered
in the noble patina of ivy. Interesting architecture, Tangom thought, everything I've seen in
Khand looked totally different. Nor is that surprising: the local version of Hakimian faith
differs substantially from Khandian orthodoxy. Honestly, though, the mountain men have
remained pagans; their conversion to Hakima two centuries ago - this most strict and
fanatical of world religions - was only another way to distinguish themselves from the
mushily tolerant Islanders, all those nobodies who have turned their lives into a constant
buy-sell litany and who will always prefer profit to honor and blood money to vendetta . . .
Here the baron's leisurely musings were rudely interrupted: his companion, who had already
emptied his knapsack and spread the still-warm morning hachapuri flatbreads and wineskin
right on it, like on a tablecloth, suddenly put down his dagger (which he had been using to
slice the basturma, thin slices of meat hard-dried to the consistency of red stained glass).

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raised his head, staring at the turn in the path, and pulled his crossbow closer in one habitual
movement.

This time the alarm was false, and two minutes later the newcomer was sitting cross-
legged by their spread backpack and saying a toast, long and convoluted like a mountain
path switch-backing toward a distant summit. He was introduced to Tangom tersely as "a
relative from Irapuato, across the valley" (the baron just shrugged: everyone in these
mountains is related somehow). Then the mountain men launched into a genteel discussion
of the coming maize harvest and the steel-hardening methods practiced by Iguatalpo and
Irapuato blacksmiths; the baron, whose participation in the conversation was anyway mostly
limited to a polite smile, began giving its due to the local wine. It is unbelievably tart and
thick, its amber depths harboring shimmering pink sparks exactly the color of the first sun
rays on a wall of yellowish limestone still wet with dew.

Tangom used not to understand the charm of this beverage, which is not surprising
because it can not stand transportation, whether bottled or barreled, so everything sold down
below is no more than an imitation. You can enjoy the local wine only in the first hours
after it has been drawn from the pifos where it had fermented with a small jar on a bamboo
handle - after that, it is only good for slaking one's thirst. During their forced idleness on
board the Flying Fish Sarrakesh had gladly educated the baron on the intricacies of
mountain winemaking: how the grapes are crushed in a wooden screw together with the vine
(hence the unusual tartness) and the juice poured through troughs into the pifoses buried
throughout the gardens, how the cork is opened for the first time - you have to carefully
snag it from the side with a long hook, looking away lest the escaping thick and unruly wine
spirit (the genie) drive you crazy . . .

Actually, most of the old smuggler's reminiscences of his rustic existence were not
very warm. It was a very peculiar world, where men were always alert and never without
weapons, where women, dressed head to toe in black, were silent shadows always gliding
past you along the farthest wall; where the tiny windows in thick walls were nothing but
crossbow firing holes and the chief product of the local economy was dead bodies produced
by the senseless permanent vendettas; a world where time stood still and one's every step
was predestined for decades ahead. It was not surprising that the joyful adventurer
Sarrakesh (whose name was very different back then) had always felt foreign there.
Meanwhile, the sea that was open to everyone and treated everyone the same was right there
... so now, when he steered his felucca across foamy storm waves with a steady hand,
barking at the crew: "Move it, bar-r-r-rnacles! Keelhaul bait!" everyone could see a man in
his element.

Which was exactly why the sea wolf allowed himself to categorically oppose
Tangorn's plan to return to the city by the twentieth: "Don't even think about it! We'll get
nabbed for sure!"

"1 must be in town tomorrow."

"Listen, buddy, did you hire me as a gondolier for an evening sail around the Ring
Canal? No, you needed a pro, right? Well, the pro says we can't get through today, and
that's how it is."

"1 must get into town," the baron repeated, "no matter what!"

"Sure you'll get into town, straight into a jail cell. Two days ago the Coast Guard
went on high alert, you understand, no? The entrance to the lagoon is shut tight, not even a

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dolphin can swim by undetected. They can't keep this up for long; we gotta wait, at least
until next week, when the moon starts to wane."
Tangorn thought about it for some time.

"All right. If they catch us, what's it to you? Six months in jail?"
"Who cares about jail? They'll confiscate my boat."

"What' s your Flying Fish worth?"
"No less than thirty dungans, that's for sure."
"Excellent. I'll buy it for fifty. Deal?"
The smuggler gave up: "You're a psycho."

"Perhaps, but the coins I pay with weren't minted in a madhouse."

The venture turned out exactly as Sarrakesh had predicted. When a warning catapult
shot from a pursuing galley splashed in a moonlit fountain of water less than fifty yards
across their bow, the skipper squinted to estimate the distance to the surf boiling around the
reefs to starboard (that night the Flying Fish, taking advantage of its paltry draught, was
attempting to slip by the very shore of the Peninsula, through reef-studded shallows off-
limits to warships), turned to the baron and ordered: "Overboard with you! It's less than a
cable to the shore, you won't melt. Find my cousin Botashaneanu's house in Iguatalpa
village, he'll hide you. Give him my fifty dungans. Cast off!" So what did I gain by
jumping into it headfirst, Tangorn thought. Truly it is said: shorter ain't the same as faster;
either way 1 lost a week. Whatever, hindsight never fails ... Suddenly a new word -
algvasils - popped up in the table talk of the mountain men, so he started listening intently.

Actually, those were city gendarmes, rather than algvasils, commanded by their own
officer rather than a local alcalde. Nine men and one officer showed up in Irapuato the day
before yesterday. Supposedly they're looking for the famous bandit Uanako, but in a weird
way: sending no patrols, instead they're going house to house asking whether anyone has
seen any strangers. As if anyone would tell those island jackals anything, even if he did see
someone ... On the other hand, one can understand those guys: the bosses want them to
catch bandits, so they're making a decent show of it; they're not dumb enough to actually
climb mountains, risking a crossbow bolt any minute for tiny pay while their friends are
safely milking caravans at the Long Dam . . .

When the guest has departed, Tangorn' s guide (whose name was Chekorello and
whose relation to Sarrakesh was beyond the baron's ken) remarked thoughtfully: "You
know, it's you they're looking for."

"Yep," Tangorn nodded. "Are you by any chance figuring how to turn me in in
Irapuato?"

"Are you crazy?! We shared bread!!" The mountain man cut himself short, having
figured out Tangorn' s intention, but did not smile. "You know, the folks down below think
we're all dumb up here and don't get jokes. Maybe so; the people here are intense and just
might cut your throat for such a joke ... Besides," he suddenly grinned just like a
grandfather promising grandkids a magic trick, "nobody's gonna pay fifty dungans you owe
my family for your head. Better I should get you over to the city, like we agreed, and earn
that money honestly, true?"

"Totally true. Have you considered the back paths?"

"Well, can't go through Irapuato now, we'll have to go around . . ."

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"Around? This is more serious than it seems. There're those strange peddlers in
Uahapan - four of them and armed to the teeth, while the tax collector with his algvasils is
in Koalkoman three weeks early. And now Irapuato ... I strongly dislike this."

"Yeah, tough ... Uahapan, Koalkoman, Irapuato - we're totally surrounded. Unless

The baron waved the unvoiced suggestion aside: "If you mean the road to Tuanohato,
forget it - bet you that it already has a presence. Most likely traveling circus men who show
tricks like putting out candles with a crossbow bolt or slicing apricot pits in midair with a
scimitar. But that's all right; what bothers me is that we're totally surrounded, like you say,
yet there are no visitors in our village. Why would that be, eh?"

"Haven't gotten around to us yet?"

"Nope - the only way to Uahapan is through Iguatalpa, right? Better tell me this: if
such a team were to show up in our village, would they be able to take me?"

"No way! You've told us to watch out for strangers, and we have. Even if they came
with a hundred gendarmes, I'd still have time to get you out of the village through
backyards, and then good luck finding us in the mountains. Should there be dogs, I've got
tobacco with pepper."

"Right, and they know it as well as we do. So what does this mean?"

"You wanna say," the mountain man squinted and squeezed his dagger's hilt hard
enough to whiten knuckles, "they've found out that you're in Iguatalpa?"

"For sure. It doesn't matter how at this point. That's number one. Number two that I
really don't like is how crudely they're working. It only seems like all those peddlers,
bandit catchers, and tax collectors are a net tightening around us. In reality, it's a bunch of
noisemakers whose job is to flush the quarry towards the hunters."

"I don't get it."

"It's simple, actually. What did you immediately think about when you heard about
gendarmes in Irapuato? Right - the back path through the mountains. Now, how smart does
one have to be to station a couple of crossbowmen in camouflage gear by that path?"

Chekorello was silent for a long time and then finally managed to say the obvious: "So
what're we gonna do?" thus acknowledging Tangom as the leader.

The baron shrugged: "We'll think, and most importantly, we'll not do anything rash,
which is what they're trying to make us do. So: Uahapan, Koalkoman, Irapuato - all these
are the noisemakers. Let's think of where the real hunters are and how to slip by them."

It's a standard problem, he thought. Once again I'm trying to catch a certain Baron
Tangorn, thirty-two years old, brown hair, six feet tall, a Nordic complexion that really
stands out around here, plus a recently acquired distinctive slight limp. Strangely enough, in
reality it' s not as simple as it seems - where should I deploy my line of hunters? And who
should these hunters be? That last is pretty clear, actually - operatives who can recognize
him, and no weapon-clad muscle boys within a mile around. The baron will certainly be in
make-up and disguise, so even those who know him will have a hard time. How many such
people are there? Hardly more than a dozen, more likely seven or eight - it's been four
years, after all. Let's say a dozen; divide them into four shifts, since an observer can't be
effective for more than six hours at a stretch. Not too many, is it? Makes no sense to split
up this team, it has to be a fist, a squad of hunters; no way can any of them be a part of the
noisemaking team, since by dividing them, we . . . Damn, but I'm stupid! No hunters among
the noisemakers, who aren't expected to meet Tangom at all - he's not that much of a fool.

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Those teams actually have no need to know what this is all about; their job is just to rattle
the bushes. So: key people are few, can't disperse them, so they'll have to be concentrated
at ... of course!

"They'll be waiting for us at the Long Dam, which we can't bypass," he announced to
Chekorello, who was going bug-eyed after half an hour of an unaccustomed mental effort.
"Here's how we'll get past them ..."

"You're mad!" was all the mountain man could say after hearing Tangorn's plan.

"I've been told that many times," replied the baron, "so if I'm a madman, I'm a very
lucky one. Are you coming with me? I won't insist - it'll be easier for me to do it alone."

"It all checks out, milord. Men from 12 Shore Street did try to capture him both at the
Seahorse Tavern and at Castamir Square. He escaped both times. Four dead at the
Seahorse, three infected with leprosy at the Square; too expensive to cover a one-time
diversion, to my taste. 4 Lamp Street is indeed a Gondorian Secret Guard safe house, and he
did raid it: one of the sergeants keeping that house was grievously wounded in the chest, his
physician confirmed Algali's account. The Secret Guard badge is genuine; that Aravan
guy's handwriting matches the one he's even now using to write explanations at the police
headquarters. Plus the entire Gondorian station is turning over stones looking for Algali. In
other words, it doesn't seem to be a ruse."

"So why didn't he show up at the Green Mackerel on the twentieth?"

"Possibly he had detected our backup team next to the restaurant and quite reasonably
decided that we were violating his terms. That's the best case; the worst is that Aragom's
people got to him. Let's hope for the best, milord, and wait for next Friday, the twenty-
seventh. We'll have to skip the backup team, lest the deal fall through again."

"True enough. But he must not leave the Green Mackerel on his own two legs . . ."

Chapter 49

Umbar, 12 Shore Street
June 25, 3019

Mongoose walked unhurriedly down the embassy's corridors.

Not crept along the wall like a fleet weightless shadow, but walked, his every step
echoing throughout the sleeping building, the wall lamps periodically illuminating his black
parade uniform with silver officer's cords on the left shoulder. Actually, Marandil realized
almost immediately that this was a trick of the weak light: the lieutenant was wearing
civilian clothes, the silver on his shoulder and chest being spots of some kind of whitish
mold . . . No, what mold - it's frost, real frost! Frost on clothing - how, from where? Just
then a weak but clearly discernible breeze - like an icy breath from a crypt - touched the
captain's face, and the flames in the lamps dipped together, as if confirming to dash all
hope: no, this is not an illusion! The walls of the embassy, long an unassailable fortress, two
layers of slavishly devoted guards, DSD's famed hunting skills - everything had failed . . .

He could physically feel the deathly cold emanating from the approaching figure; this
cold froze Marandil' s boots to the floor and turned the panicked flurry of his thoughts into
gel. This is it. You knew all along that this was how it was going to end . . . After Aravan' s
testimony you knew when, now you know how, that's all ... In the meantime, the lieutenant
was turning into a real mongoose leisurely approaching a cobra - a flat triangular head with
flattened ears, itself resembling a snake's head, ruby eye beads and blinding white needle

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teeth under raised whiskers. He, Marandil, was the cobra - an old tired cobra with broken
venomous fangs . . . Any moment now those teeth will sink into his throat, the blood will
spurt from the torn arteries, the delicate neck vertebra will crunch ... He backed away,
futilely trying to shield himself from the approaching nightmare with his hands, and
suddenly sprawled flat on his back: his heel caught the upturned edge of a carpet runner.

The pain from a badly bumped elbow rescued the captain, snapping him back into
reality. His terror somehow switched modes, turning from paralyzing to hysterical;
Marandil jumped up and sped down the corridor so fast that the wall lamps turned into a
blurred fiery line. Stairs . . . down . . . over the railing to the next landing . . . again . . .
there's supposed to be a guard here - where is he? ... corridor before the chiefs office ...
the guards, where the hell are all the damn guards?! Footfalls behind - regular, as if
measuring the thick silence of the corridor. A-a-a-argh! it's a dead end! where now? The
office - no other choice ... the key . . . doesn't fit in the keyhole, dammit . . . idiot, it's the
key to the safe . . . calm down . . . Great Aiile, help me - this damn lock catches often . . .
Footfalls getting closer, like an icy water drip on a prisoner's shaved head (why isn't he
running? Shut up, idiot, don't jinx it!) . . . calm, now . . . turn the key . . . yes!

Squeezing through the barely opened door like a lizard, he pushed it closed with his
entire body and locked it at just the moment the werewolf's footfalls reached the threshold.
The captain did not strike up the light, having no strength; shaking and sopping wet with
sweat, he sat down on the hardwood floor right in the middle of the office, in a large square
of moonlight crisscrossed by the shadow of the window frame. Marandil understood that
the nightmarish pursuer was still there, but strangely, he somehow felt safe here, sitting on
this silvery carpet, as if he was a child who had just 'touched base.' He glanced distractedly
at the pattern of moon shadows on the floor next to him and only then thought of checking
out the window itself. Looking at the window, he almost howled in terror and desperation.

There, on the ledge, with his face almost against the windowpane, was a man with an
uncanny resemblance to a hyena. Obviously it would be easy for this second werewolf to
knock out the window and leap into the room, but he did not move, just stared at Marandil
with round faintly phosphorescent eyes. A faint sound of metal scratching metal came from
behind - Mongoose was working on the door lock. At least the key is still in the hole,
Marandil thought fleetingly only a moment before a terrible blow hammered the door. A
jagged hole six or so inches wide appeared beside the lock; faint light from the corridor
streamed through it but was immediately cut down to a few rays when something obscured
it. Then, suddenly, the lock clicked and the door opened wide. Only then did Marandil
understand that the lieutenant had simply slammed his fist through the door panel, stuck his
hand in, and turned the key still in the lock. The captain dashed to the window (the hyena-
man on the ledge scared him less than Mongoose), and then two more figures slipped out of
the deep shadows in the comers of the room with silent grace; somehow he recognized
wolves immediately.

They dragged him out by the feet from under the table where he tried to duck and
stood over him, fangs bared, the sharp smell of dog and raw meat wafting over the captain;

having realized the manner in which he was about to pay for his treachery, he could only
whine on the floor, trying to cover his throat and crotch . . . Suddenly the entire apparition
blew away at the sound of Mongoose's dispassionate voice: "Captain Marandil, you're
under arrest in the name of the King. Sergeant, take his weapons, badge, and keys to the
safe. To the basement with him!"

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No! No! No-o-o-o! It's untrue, this can't be happening - not to him, Captain of the
Secret Guard Marandil, the chief of Gondorian station in Umbar! Yet already they are
dragging him down the steep chipped stairs (out of the blue he remembered that there were
twenty of them, with a large hole in the fourth step from the bottom); once in the basement,
they shake him out of his clothes and hang him up by the tied thumbs off a large hook in the
ceiling beam. Then Mongoose's face appears in front of his again, eye to eye:

"I'm not interested in your games with the Umbarian Secret Service right now. What
1 want to know is who advised you to point the Elves to our team by siccing their
underground on His Majesty's Secret Guard? Who in Minas Tirith are you working for -
Arwen's people? What do they know about Tangorn's mission?"

"1 know nothing about that, 1 swear by anything!" he croaks, twisting with pain in
dislocated joints, understanding full well that this is just a warm-up. "I gave no orders to
kidnap that Algali - Aravan is either crazy or working for himself ..."

"Please begin. Sergeant. So who told you to reveal me to the Elves?"

They know their job well and dose the pain just so, not allowing him to slip away into
unconsciousness, and it lasts an infinitely long time ... Then it is all over: the mercy of the
Valar is truly boundless, and Vaira's gentle palms pick him up and carry him to the safest
refuge - the shadowy halls of Mandos.

The sun was shining straight into Marandil' s eyes - it was almost noon. Groaning, he
raised his head (heavy like he had not slept at all) off the roUed-up cloak he had used as a
pillow, trying either to swallow or spit out the scream still stuck in his dry throat. Habitually
he felt for an unfinished bottle of rum by the couch, pulled the cork out with his teeth and
took a few large swigs. Actually, alcohol did not help any more; he had to sniff kokkaine to
really wake up. Over the last few days fear ate up the station chief from the inside, leaving
only a pitiful shriveled shell. The captain did not step outside the embassy now and slept
only during daytime, in his clothes: for some reason he had convinced himself that
Mongoose was going to come for him at midnight, just like in his nightmares.

Those nightmares were varied and diverse. In them. Mongoose's special ops team
would now shp into his office like shadows, nin 'yokve-siylQ, then arrive ghost-like right out
of the large Khandian wall mirror (when he woke up after that one, he smashed it first
thing), or simply break down his door like a regular police squad, uniformed and armed with
official papers. His most vivid recollection was of a dream in which he was attacked by four
cat-sized bats. Fleet and impervious, they chased the captain all over the building, chirping
angrily and slapping his head with their leathery wings, going for the eyes; the palms with
which he had shielded his face and the back of his head were both already torn into bloody
pulp by their tiny sharp teeth, and only then did the usual ending come: "Captain Marandil,
you're under arrest in the name of the King. Sergeant, take his weapons, badge, and keys to
the safe. To the basement with him!"

"Mister Secretary! Mister Secretary, wake up!" Finally he realized that he did not
wake up by himself - there was a courier shifting from foot to foot in the door. "Sir
Ambassador is summoning you right now."

Right now - that was new. When he received the letter with Aravan' s testimony ten
days prior in the morning mail. Sir Eldred, the Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the Reunited
Kingdom, demanded an explanation from the station chief. Hearing nothing but pitiful "not
my doing, not our business," he began avoiding the captain like the plague, demonstratively

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severing all contact with him. The most horrible thing was that the legend that Tangorn had
dictated to Aravan sounded so persuasive that Marandil doubted his own sanity: what if he
had, indeed, given the order while somehow out of his mind? He became so convinced that
he did away with the wounded Morimir (what if he, too, confirms the order to kidnap Algali
once he wakes up?); he did it in a hurry, clumsily, leaving plenty of clues and no way to go
back. Marandil felt a suffocating emptiness around himself: his subordinates, to a man,
avoided his glance, and all conversation stopped in any room he entered. He knew that it
was high time to flee, but he was afraid of being alone in the city even more. His only hope
was that DSD would get to Mongoose before he got to him; he no longer believed that his
own guard (which was so instructed) would be able to stop the lieutenant.

"What's the big hurry?" he asked the courier sullenly, trying to smooth out his
crumpled clothes.

"They've found some corpse and say it's your department. It has plenty of small scars
around the mouth."

Marandil almost ran into the Ambassador's office and was immediately seized by two
bedraggled men in dirty jackets who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. Sir
Eldred stood a bit aside, affronted aristocratic haughtiness and bureaucratic servility
blending oddly in his stance and expression - it was obvious that His Eminence had just
been administered the proverbial acid enema, a couple of pails worth at least. His chair was
occupied by none other than Mongoose himself, cross-legged and as dirty as his
subordinates.

"Captain Marandil, you 're under arrest in the name of the King. Sergeant, take his
weapons, badge, and keys to the safe. To the basement with him! " Standing up, he said
over his shoulder: "Sir Ambassador, I strongly advise you to find the chief of security and
kick his ass. There are at least four ways to get in here, but to fail to even put grates on the
sewer openings - such sloppiness is utterly beyond belief! Don't be surprised to find a
gypsy camp in your garden and a couple of sleeping bums in the lobby one day ..."

No! No! No-o-o-o! It's untrue, this can't be happening - not to him, Captain of the
Secret Guard Marandil, the chief of Gondorian station in Umbar! Yet already they are
dragging him down the steep chipped stairs (out of the blue he remembered that there were
twenty of them, with a large hole in the fourth step from the bottom); once in the basement,
they shake him out of his clothes and hang him up by the tied thumbs off a large hook in the
ceiling beam. Then Mongoose's face appears in front of his again, eye to eye:

"I'm not interested in your games with the Umbarian Secret Service right now. What
I want to know is who advised you to point the Elves to our team by siccing their
underground on His Majesty 's Secret Guard? Who in Minas Tirith are you working for -
Arwen 's people? What do they know about Tangorn 's mission? "

"I know nothing about that, I swear by anything! " he croaks, twisting with pain in
dislocated joints, understanding full well that this is just a warm-up. "I gave no orders to
kidnap that Algali - Aravan is either crazy or working for himself ... "

"Please begin. Sergeant. So who told you to reveal me to the Elves? "

They know their job well and dose the pain just so, not allowing him to slip away into
unconsciousness, and it lasts an infinitely long time ... Then it is all over: the mercy of the
Valar is truly boundless, and Vaira 's gentle palms pick him up and carry him to the safest
refuge - the shadowy halls of Mandos.

You wish!

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"You bastard, don't even hope to die before you tell everything you know! Which of
Arwen's people are you working for? How do you communicate?"
Nothing was over. It was only beginning . . .

Chapter 50

Umbar, the Long Dam
June 27, 3019

The Long Dam of Umbar is not among the Twelve Wonders of the World as
enumerated by Ash-Sharam in his Universal History, but that is only a testament to the
biases of that great Vendotenian: he preferred pretty playthings like the Barad-dur tower and
the Hanging Temple of Mendor to functional buildings, no matter how grandiose. The
seven-hundred- fathom dam that joined the Peninsula to the Islands four centuries ago never
failed to impress newcomers to Umbar: it was wider than any city street and allowed two-
way caravan traffic. That was what it was built for, actually - so that the merchants moving
goods via the Chevelgar Highway to and from the continent would not have to bother with
ferries. Not for free, of course: evil tongues insisted that the sheer volume of silver coins
charged as tolls over those four centuries was enough to erect another dam of the same size.

A small town of gaudy pavilions, tents, and bamboo cabins sprawled before the
massive Customs House, which straddled the dam at the Peninsula end. Here, a merchant
worn out by the five-day trek over the winding stretches of the Chevelgar Highway had
every opportunity to spend his money on things much more pleasant than custom collectors.
The grey shish-kebab smoke rising from the mangals was almost tastier than the shish-
kebabs themselves, women of all sizes and skin colors unobtrusively paraded their charms,
soothsayers and mages promised to predict the outcome of your next business deal for just a
piccola, or forever wipe out all your competitors for a castamir . . . Beggars forcefully pled
for mercy, pickpockets trawled the crowds, con artists and shell players competed for marks;
the policemen coolly plied their racket nearby (this was a rich pasture, to say the least. It is
said that a certain rookie policeman had once petitioned his sergeant with the following
written request: "Due to severe financial circumstances thanks to the birth of my third child,
1 request at least a temporary transfer to the Long Dam."). In other words, it was a miniature
Umbar in all its glory.

Today the line crawled like never before. Not only did the customs inspectors appear
about to fall asleep on their feet (while still sticking their noses into every sack), but there
was a bottleneck on the dam itself, where a team of workers just had to be replacing the
roadway cover. A huge black-bearded caravan-bashi from Khand already realized that the
customs officials - may the Almighty strike them with epilepsy and boils! - have wasted so
much of his time that he and his bactrians were not going to make it to the Islands before
lunch, and therefore today's marketing was gone to the dogs. All right, why worry and fume
now - it's all the Almighty's will. He told his assistant to watch the animals and goods
while he would while away the time checking out the tent city.

After filling up in one of the eateries (a lagman, three portions of excellent saffron
meat stew, and a plate of dried-fruit finger pies), he headed back but detoured to a small
stage where an olive-skinned dancer dressed only in a few flying strips of silk was
undulating invitingly. Two mountain men from the Peninsula were devouring her with their
eyes (especially the shapely thighs moving back and forth in an unmistakable rhythm and
the slick belly), not forgetting to either spit from time to time, as if in disgust ("What do the

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townies see in these skinny sluts?"), or to trade heartfelt generalisations on the subject of
townswomen's lack of virtue. The caravan-bashi was already estimating what a closer
encounter with the dancer in her tent behind the stage might cost him when dire fate brought
a Hakimian preacher out of nowhere. The bald mummy with his rotten rags and burning
eyes immediately unleashed a storm of denunciations on the heads of "lechers who gaze
lustily at the vile show put on by our fallen sister." The 'fallen sister' did not give a damn,
but the caravaneer decided to retire from the scene promptly, lest the holy man brand him
with some nightmarish curse.

He did want a broad something awful, though - five days of abstinence, man! He
scanned his immediate environs, and what do you know - what he was looking for was right
there, just a few steps away. The girl did not look like much at first glance - a skinny kid of
seventeen or so with a large well-seasoned black eye to boot - but the Khandian checked out
her supple figure with his experienced eye and almost licked his lips openly - this, guys,
was quite something! Cover her face with a rag and go ahead.

"You bored, lass?"

"Keep moving," the girl responded indifferently in a husky but pleasant voice. "I'm
not in the business. Pop."

"Not in the business, or haven't had a decent offer yet? Don't you worry, I pay real
well!" With a laugh, as if jokingly, he grabbed her hand with an iron grip.

The girl responded with a short tirade fit to make a pirate boatswain blush, freed her
hand from the caravaneer' s paw with one precise smooth movement and quickly stepped
back into the alleyway between a patched tent and a rickety reed-mat pavilion. Actually,
there is nothing difficult about that - you just have to pull away exactly in the direction of
the assailant's thumb tip - but it is impressive the first time around and usually leads to
proper conclusions. This time, though, the agitated caravan-bashi (some little whore will
play hard-to-get with me?!) stampeded into the alleyway after his elusive prey.

Not half a minute later the Khandian was back to the plaza. He was stepping gingerly
now, almost tip-toeing, hugging his right hand to his belly with his left and quietly moaning.
Sorry, man, you screwed up. It is child's play for even a rookie DSD operative to dislocate
the thumb of a hand extended in a threat, and the girl was far from a rookie. A short time
afterwards Fay (as she was known to her colleagues in the Department) was back to her
assigned section of the plaza, but the unlucky caravaneer would not have recognized her
even were he to bump into her: the young whore was gone, replaced by a water boy - ragged
and dirty-faced, but with no sign of a black eye, and it is precisely such distinctive features
that observers typically notice. She was back to her post just in time: the blind beggar
sitting at the very entrance to the dam whined: "Help me if you can, kind folks!" instead of
his usual "Kind folks, help me if you can!" - a 'come here' signal.

Of course. Fay remembered their quarry's description (brown-haired northerner, six
feet tall, grey eyes, thirty-two but looks younger, slight right limp) word for word, despite
only working operation support today, reporting directly to the blind beggar who worked
recognition. Of course, she had no idea that the blind beggar was the Vice-Director of
Operations himself, just like she had no knowledge of the stern warning Yakudze had
received the day before - that if his Tangom-catching venture did not bear fruit within a day,
he would not get away with just being fired without a pension. With a piercing "Water,
water, cold water with ice!" the girl slipped expertly into the crowd, trying to figure out on
the fly who had attracted the chief's attention.

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A cart loaded with what appeared to be sacks of corn was just entering the dam. A tall
slender mountain man of about twenty-eight to thirty led the pair of mules pulling it; the gap
between his raspberry fez and the pavement was exactly the required six feet. As for
everything else . . . even discounting the lack of a limp (which could have been a distractive
ruse like her erstwhile black eye), the man's eyes are definitely not grey. What about the
sacks? The sacks are a serious possibility, which is why the baron has no hopes there. To
get past the dam in a barrel or a sack is too obvious a move; it is so overused, banal, and
ridiculed that its very kitschiness might tempt Tangom, who is known for his paradoxical
solutions. This is why the customs inspectors are working especially hard today (a rumor
about undercover Treasury auditors hunting bribe-takers had been planted among them), and
a specially trained dog surreptitiously checks every single cart (which move very slowly
because of the road repairs).

Having thus ruled out both the sacks and their owner, Fay glanced sharply at a team of
mounted gendarmes with their catch - six mountain men chained in pairs - that had cut into
the line ("Watch out! Make way - want some whip?"), made sure they were legit and
looked beyond them. Ah, so that's it!

A group of Hakimian pilgrims returning home from Shavar-Shavan - a traditional
three-week pilgrimage to one of their mountain shrines. About thirty people with their faces
hooded as a sign of contrition, almost a half of them either epileptics or cripples, including
lame ones. A truly ideal cover - even if they recognize the baron (practically impossible),
how can they extract him from the crowd of pilgrims? By force, using the team of 'road
workers'? That will start a melee that doesn't bear thinking about, not to mention a possible
deadly clash between Hakimians and Aritanians tomorrow in the city. Trick him into
moving aside? How? These thoughts almost caused Fay to miss the moment when 'her'
blind man got up, yielding his lucrative spot to another member of the beggars guild, and
followed the pilgrims, his cane clacking on the pavement; this meant that he had recognized
Tangom with certainty.

A few moments later Fay morphed from a water carrier into a blind man's guide. The
two mountain men - the ones that had been ogling the dancer together with the hapless
caravan-bashi - were following a little behind (one of them was Ras-Shua, DSD's resident
spy on the Peninsula), followed by a strange group of two shady-looking young men and a
worn customs official. Lunch time had arrived for the road workers; they began filing into
town, too. The trap on the dam had worked flawlessly, thanks to the old hand Yakudze.

"Girl, he did a great job. The idea is excellent, 1 applaud him. To be honest, it was
pure dumb luck that 1 recognized him; the rest of our guys just plain missed him. Too bad
he's not playing on our side . . ."

The Vice-Director's voice was almost tender: a victory invites both magnanimousness
and self-criticism. He remembered the little cafe on Great Castamir's Square, the goblet of
Niimen he had drunk to the gondolier's success, and his verdict: "He is, indeed, an amateur
- a brilliant and lucky one, but he'll be lucky once or twice and the third time he'll break his
neck ..." Now is the third time - no one can stay lucky forever.

"How did you recognize him under the hood?"

"The hood? Oh, you think he's one of the pilgrims?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Of course not. He's a prisoner, the right one in the first pair. His face is covered
with a bloody rag, and they all limp - the leg irons are no joke."

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"But the gendannes . . ."

"The gendarmes are real, and he's a real prisoner, that's the point! An excellent and
truly elegant solution. Don't halt or gape - people will notice. Learn from the pros while
they're still around, girl ... I mean him, not me."

Chapter 51

"I still don't understand ... I mean, I don't understand fully," Fay admitted, seeing
that her chief was in a great mood and thus predisposed to explain.

"He figured correctly: the gendarmes were sure to attract our attention - a captured
uniform is standard cover - but their catch, provided the gendarmes were real, were much
less likely to do so. So he became their catch. I don't know how yet, but it's not really
important. There are many ways ... for example, he could come to Irapuato and spill half a
mug of wine on one of them in the local tavern. They'd beat him up, of course - giving him
an excuse to bandage his bloodied face - but then they'd take him into the city without
hindrance, hiding him in the best possible hideout for a couple months; neither we nor
Aragom's people would look for him in jail. That is, if he wanted to lie low; otherwise he
could contact one of his people - Alviss, say - through the criminals there, and she'd buy
him out in a day or two. Except my plans don't include letting him cool his heels in a jail
cell."

Following the gendarmes (who were, indeed, the 'bandit hunters' of Irapuato) at about
fifty yards distance, Yakudze and his companion reached the harbor police station. The
prisoners were divided at that point: four were herded on toward the Ar-Horan prison, just
visible beyond the Ring Canal, while the team leader personally took Tangorn and the
mountain man chained to him (Ras-Shua had already identified him as one Chekorello,
Sarrakesh's nephew twice removed) inside the station. After waiting fifteen minutes for
propriety's sake, Yakudze went inside, too. When the guard on duty attempted to stop two
ragged beggars, he showed him a police commissar's badge (he had plenty of badges on his
person, from Admiralty flag captain's to a customs inspector's - the important part was not
to mix them up) and drily ordered him to take them to the local chief.

"Commissar Rahmajanian," he introduced himself once in the chief's office. Its
occupant, a mussed-looking fat man with hanging jowls who looked like a caricature of a
police chief come alive, made a not-entirely-successful attempt to pry his expansive
backside out of the chair and greeted his visitor: "Senior Inspector Jezin. Have a seat.
Commissar. How can I help you? Is the girl from your staff, by the way?"

"Certainly." Fay's disguise had not fooled Jezin for even a second. A bunch of clues
had already led Yakudze to conclude that the chief was, on the one hand, sufficiently
perceptive (which was not surprising, given that the harbor station was a real gold mine,
with plenty of contenders for that plum post), and, on other hand, blunt and unsophisticated:
for example, the unopened bottle of Elvish wine sitting in plain sight on his table would
have cost him about three months' salary in the Elfstone store on the Three Stars
Embankment. Way too brazen, Yakudze thought sadly. Fortunately, keeping police noses
clean was not part of DSD's duties.

"About half an hour ago two arrested mountain men were supposed to be delivered
here ..." he began, but the Senior Inspector protested vigorously: "You're mistaken.
Commissar, no prisoner deliveries here for the past couple of hours!"

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This was so unexpected that Yakudze tried to explain to the fat man that arguing was
useless, since it all happened in his plain sight.

"Then you must've been hallucinating, Commissar," the man answered impudently,
signaling the guard at the door. "The Corporal here will attest: we have no mountain men
detained here and never had!"

Yakudze shook his head sorrowfully: "We're misunderstood here, girl." That was a
code phrase. The next moment Fay stabbed the corporal in the base of the neck, straight
between the clavicles, with her suddenly steel-like index finger; a second later the thick
office door was locked from the inside, cutting the Senior Inspector off from his
subordinates in the corridor. Meanwhile, Yakudze intercepted Jezin's hand, which was
going towards the nearest weapon, and with a single twist of the wrist made him collapse
into the chair, choking on a scream. Looking around, the Vice-Director of Operations broke
off the Elvish bottle's neck with the edge of his palm and dumped its precious contents on
the policeman's head and neck; once the man came to, Yakudze pulled him up by the collar
and inquired with all possible fondness: "Where're the prisoners?"

The fat man shook and sweated, but remained silent. Having no time to spare - at any
moment someone might start breaking down the door - Yakudze made his proposition short
and to the point: "Ten seconds to think about it. Then I'll start counting to five, breaking a
finger at each count. On the count of six I'll cut your throat with this razor. Look in my
eyes - do I look like I'm joking?"

"You're from the Secret Service, right?" the Senior Inspector mumbled mournfully,
ashen with terror. It was clear as day that he had not earned his stripes risking his hide in the
Kharmian Village slums.

"Six seconds gone. Well?"

"I'll tell you everything I know! They ordered me to let them go ..."

"Ordered?!" Yakudze felt the floor drop out from under him; there was a revolting
feeling of free-fall in his stomach.

"They're men of the King of Gondor, from his Secret Guard. They were on a secret
mission in the Peninsula, but the mountain men figured them out and were about to execute
them. They managed to escape to Irapuato through the woods, made contact with the city
gendarmes looking for Uanako there, and ordered their commander to evacuate them to the
city as prisoners . . . Here at the station they told me to get them some street clothes and let
them out by the back door. They also said," the man cringed pitifully, "that if I told anyone
about this, they'd find me anywhere, even in the Far West ... I understand that legally the
Secret Guard of Gondor has no authority here, but . . . you know?"

"What made you think that they're Aragom's men?"

"One of them is obviously a Northerner from Gondor, and he presented a Secret Guard
sergeant's badge."

"Sergeant Morimir or Sergeant Aravan ..." Yakudze muttered, not recognizing his
own voice. What bout of insanity could have made him forget the badges Tangorn had
scored in his raid on 4 Lamp Street?!

"Yes, sir. Sergeant Morimir! So you know these people?"

"Yes, better than I'd like to. When this Morimir changed clothes, have you noticed
whether he had anything in his pockets?"
"Just money, nothing else."
"How much?"

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"About ten castamirs and change."
"What kind of clothes did you give them?"

The Vice-Director of Operations nodded mechanically while Jezin described the rags
he had so obligingly given to his important guests in minute detail, paying only minimal
attention - this information was already useless. Ten castamirs ... He turned to Fay:

"Leave right now through the same exit they've used. Eruko's store is on the left,
towards the Ring Canal. It's possible that they will buy new clothes there: it's not a cheap
store, but ten castamirs should be enough. If not, continue along the shore ..."

"To the Flea Market?"

"Correct. Right now they badly need to change clothes, and soon - it's our only
chance. Move."

He sat down heavily on the low stone wall by the entrance to the police station and
held out a hand without looking. Ras-Shua, sitting down by his side, immediately put a
flask of rum in that hand; Yakudze took a couple of swigs and stared fixedly at the setting
sun. His head was achingly empty. Sure, they'll pick up Tangorn's trail eventually, but that
won't save him: Almandin's deadline is in an hour. He felt no animosity towards the baron:
the man played by the rules.

"I got them, chief!" Suddenly, a beaming Fay appeared before him, looking happy
and winded - apparently, she had run all the way. "They've changed at Eruko's, just like
you said, and then went into the Seamen Credit Bank right next door!"

It could not be, but there it was. It looked like today Fate undertook a pointed
demonstration of how little our efforts and skills matter compared to her whims. After all,
he thought as he hurried after Fay towards the Seamen Bank (the girl had prudently engaged
three street urchins to watch the place), after all it looks like I got away with a scare (knock
on wood), whereas the baron is really unlucky today: he's doing everything first-rate, good
enough to include in the Operations Manual, and still . . .

By the time Tangom and Chekorello left the bank, dressed now with understated
luxury, the DSD's finks have woven an unbreakable web around them. The friends
embraced three times in the mountain fashion and then went their separate ways. The
reason for the visit to the bank became clear as soon as one of the operatives, who had
superb pick-pocketing skills, determined by touch that Chekorello was now "brimming with
coin like a September trout with eggs." Yakudze ordered everyone to forget the mountain
man - let him go in peace - and concentrate on following Tangom. Just then reinforcements
showed up (a standby surveillance team), and the baron's chances of escaping undetected
became nil: no lone individual can beat an organization, provided it is a halfway decent one.

Tangom spent the next two hours cruising around the city expertly and flamboyantly -
melting into market crowds, hiding out in empty echoing open-ended courtyards, suddenly
jumping into gondolas for hire - but utterly failing to either lose or even spot the
surveillance. Unlike the Gondorian spies, DSD professionals were of the highest caliber.
Only once did the Higher Powers warn Yakudze (who had calmed down and was now
hanging back, like a mobile headquarters of the operation) that he should not relax
prematurely. Observers reported that the baron, having painstakingly checked his
surroundings, has entered the Green Mackerel restaurant; should they follow him inside and
risk detection or simply wait outside?

"Is the back of the restaurant covered?" Yakudze asked for formality's sake. In
answer, the operative only paled and swallowed convulsively.

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"Holy crap!" the Vice-Director roared, his stomach again in free-fall. "Don't you
know that the damn Mackerel's privy window is large enough to push a boar through? I'll
fire the whole damn lot of you idiots!"

While saying that Yakudze had time to reflect that if Tangom had indeed spotted them
and had already ducked into that privy, then he, at least, won't be doing any firing . . . But
the scare blew over: it turned out that the baron was having a proper dinner in a private room
with two gentlemen, one of whom the operatives identified as the missing Junior Secretary
Algali.

Chapter 52

Umbar, the Green Mackerel restaurant
June 27, 3019

"By the way, how did that business with your cousin's broken engagement end up?"
Tangom asked nonchalantly once the meal was over and Algali had left them for the
common room at his companion's barely discernible nod.

"Nothing much; I suppose Linoel is already seeing someone else. By the way, if you
hope to impress me with your knowledge of Lorien's high society gossip, then the effect is
rather the reverse: this bit of news is really stale."

Score one for me, Tangorn thought, else why did you volunteer an explanation right
away? Maybe those Elves aren't as perceptive as rumor has it. Aloud he said: "I just
wanted to ensure that you are, indeed, Elandar: you mentioned the name Linoel, and that's
what I was looking for. Very primitive, of course, but ..." He smiled a slightly bashful
smile. "Actually, could you please remove your half -mask?"

"As you wish."

Yes, his interlocutor was undoubtedly an Elf: he had vertical rather than round pupils,
like those of a cat or a snake. One could also ask for a look at the tips of his ears, hidden
under the hairdo, but there was no real need. He's made it to his goal. Through the mossy
forests and churning rivers, through treacherous bogs and snowy peaks did the noble knight
struggle, until the magic ball led him to the Uggun Gorge, with burned slag for ground, bile
flowing in the streams, and not a blade of living grass. There did the dragon abide in his
lair under granite boulders ... Actually, as long as we're in the ancient ballad mode, let's be
frank: rather than the noble knight, you're his tricky armor bearer whose only task is to steal
up to the entrance to the lair, throw some bait inside and beat it immediately. It will be up to
Haladdin to battle the great worm once he emerges, but the doctor will only have a chance if
the monster gobbles the poison bait first: the well-sealed package you had retrieved two
hours ago from the Seamen Bank vault where it had spent all this time together with the
mithril coat and some other stuff. Sure, this is hardly knightly behavior, but our task is to rid
the world of the dragon, rather than get to star in children's books.

"You're satisfied, I hope?" The Elf broke the prolonged silence. Scorn shone in the
depth of his eyes like a pair of bluish swamp gas flames.

"I suppose so. I don't know Elandar personally, but the verbal description seems to
match." That was pure bluff, but it seemed to have gone over smoothly; in any case there
were no more ways to check. "Should you not be who you say you are, now is the best time
to drop out, believe me. The thing is that the information I'm about to entrust to you may
cost some of Lorien's higher-ups their heads, so they will most likely hunt its keeper as
vigorously as Aragom's men are hunting me. Clofoel Eomis' son will be able to handle it

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appropriately while, importantly, staying alive, unlike any lower-placed Elf. It's a well-
known axiom that dangerous information is destroyed together with its carriers; I'm sure
you understand what it means to learn something unsuitable to one's position, even
accidentally ..." With those words Tangom glanced meaningfully towards the exit Algali
had used.

"Yes, you're right," the other nodded calmly, having followed Tangorn's glance. "I
am, indeed, Elandar, while you. Baron, since you know milady Eomis' internal title, do
indeed know how Lorien works. But I'm afraid that you're overestimating my rank in the
hierarchy."

"Not at all. You're to play the same role as mine - that of an intermediary. The
information, as you've probably guessed, is meant for your mother. Moreover, I have
reasons to believe that clofoel Eornis is not the ultimate addressee, either."

"Ah so? ..." Elandar drawled thoughtfully. "So Faramir did manage to obtain proof
that certain parties in Lorien have indeed befriended Aragom and are about to use the
Reunited Kingdom as a trump in their game against the Lady ... Is the Prince of Ithilien
hoping that she will return the throne of Minas Tirith to him as a reward?"

"I repeat - I'm just an intermediary, I'm not empowered to name any names. Why,
does something in this scheme seem unlikely to you?"

"Theoretically it's quite plausible . . . maybe too plausible. It's just that - no offense -
I don't trust you personally even a little bit. Baron. There's way too much noise about your
person. Aragorn's people do seem to be hunting you, but you're suspiciously lucky, first at
the Seahorse, then at that Castamir puddle. Or take this story with freeing AlgaU - who can
believe such a coincidence?"

Tangorn spread his hands. "It is difficult for me to object, as the story is, indeed,
incredible. So you still suspect that the incident at 4 Lamp Street is my doing?"

"I did until yesterday," Elandar admitted glumly. "However, yesterday Captain
Marandil was arrested and had testified thoroughly about the incident. He did order Algali' s
kidnapping ..."

Tangorn had to struggle to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. Truly it is said: "Too
good is no good, either."

"We're spinning wheels, dear sir," he said abruptly, feeling that it was time to mount
an attack. "In any event you won't be the one to make decisions in this matter - not your

level, if you'll pardon the expression. All I need to know is whether you have the means to
deliver my message to milady Eornis and keep anyone else in Lorien from finding out? If
not, I have to seek other channels, and this conversation is pointless."

The Elf thoughtfully stroked the package lying on the table, clearly looking for traces
of magic. Tangom held his breath: the dragon approached the bait and sniffed it warily.
Actually he had nothing to fear - physically, the package was clean and trick-free.

He smirked: "I hope you can detect the absence of poisons or stored magic without
opening the parcel?"

"I'll manage somehow ..." Elandar hefted the package. "But this weighs almost half a
pound, and I clearly detect metal inside . . . quite a bit of metal. What else is there beside

the message?"

"The message is wrapped in several layers of thick silver foil, so that it can't be
magically read from outside." The Elf nodded almost imperceptibly. "The outer wrap is
sackcloth; the knots of the cords tying it are sealed with wax and have metal rings woven

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into them right where the seals are. It is impossible to secretly open such packaging: one
can neither boil the sealing wax away, since it's too deeply infused into the sackcloth, nor
carefully slice the seals away with a thin hot blade - the rings are in the way. This is how
they seal government mail in Khand, and I know of no method that's more secure. Another
precaution is that the knots that bind the rings are unlikely to be known to any Elves. Please
observe."

With those words Tangorn quickly tied a piece of string around the handle of a fruit
knife and handed it to Elandar. The Elf tried to figure out the elaborate pattern, then gave up
with obvious displeasure: "One of the local marine knots?"

"Not at all. It's just that the Elves are very conservative and use only one way of tying
string to a bow, whereas there are at least three such knots, of which this is one."

Testily, Elandar stuffed the package inside his jacket and examined the knot again.
Sure, it's annoying for a member of the higher race to fail at such a trifle. Tangorn froze,
afraid to believe his eyes. The dragon swallowed the bait ... he did . . . gulped it, munched,
gobbled, wolfed it down! Suddenly, as if sensing the happy jumble of thought and emotion
in his mind, the Elf raised his gaze and stared the baron in the eye. With horror Tangorn felt
an irresistible force pull him inside the slits of Elandar' s bottomless pupils, felt cold fingers
picking through his soul with habitual disgust . . . Even a small child knows you can 't look a
dragon in the eye! He pulled away with all the power of his despair; so does a fox spring
out of the steel trap, leaving behind scraps of hide, bits of flesh with shards of broken bones,
and ragged sinews. I know nothing - I'm a messenger, nothing more! The pain was
terrible, almost physical, and then it was suddenly over - he managed to free himself ... or
did the Elf just let him go? Then he heard Elandar' s voice, coming in waves as if in a
dream:

"That you hate us is immaterial: politics bring even stranger bedmates together. But
you're hiding something dangerous and important about this package, and that is really bad.
What if all that's inside is some local state secret like the Umbarian fire recipe or one of the
Admiralty's maps, and the DSD is waiting at the door to send me off to the galleys for thirty
years or so, or perhaps straight to the Ar-Horan gallows, it being wartime and all? Wouldn't
it be nice to have me arrested for espionage, eh?"

"That's not so ..." Tangorn objected feebly, unable to push his eyelids apart; his
tongue was leaden, and he felt like either vomiting or just dying. Is this what a woman feels
after rape?

"Not so?" the Elf grunted. "Perhaps. Still, it seems to me that there's something rotten
about your little gift!"

But the dragon didn 't even consider swallowing the bait; all he did was sniff it lazily
and drag it back to his lair, just in case, there to lie forever amidst shards of broken armor
of the knights who had dared challenge the monster, kings ' crowns, golden chalices from
destroyed cities, and skeletons of fair maidens ... It's over, Tangorn realized: he had lost the
most important fight of his entire life. As Em's his witness, he did everything humanly
possible, but at the last moment Fortune turned away from him . . . him and Haladdin. Does
this mean that he was mistaken and the Higher Powers do not approve of their mission?

In the meantime Algali came back to their room - it was time to wrap up. Elandar,
having turned into a refined gentleman again, amused his companions with a fresh joke,
complained about urgent business forcing him to abandon this pleasant company ("No,
Baron, by no means should you accompany me; better spend another ten minutes or so here

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with dear Algali"), filled their goblets from a pocket flask ("To our success, Baron! This is
real Elvish wine, nothing like the swill they sell at Elfstone, believe me"), drank the dark
ruby liquid in a single draught, put the half-mask back on his face and headed out.

Tangom and Algali sat across from each other in silence for a couple of minutes, the
untouched goblets Uke border markers on the table between them. Dearest Elandar is
making sure I'm not following him, the baron thought lazily. I wonder if mister junior
secretary knows that I can get out of this restaurant any minute through the privy window?
He could, although that's unlikely . . . The thing is - I don't need it any more.

What a vile trick did I play on you, lad, he thought suddenly when he met the
childishly open gaze of the 'carrier of unsuitable information.' Maybe that's why the Higher
Powers have turned away from me? Now it turns out that I've immersed in that indelible
muck - with you and the guy at 4 Lamp Street - for no good reason. I played a trick on you,
they played one on me; as usual, the gods have the last laugh.

"You know, I'll sit here for a while longer, but you should make legs as fast as you
can, if you value your life. Your Elvish friends have sentenced you to death. I suggest
using the privy window - someone your size can squeeze through with no difficulty."

"Even if I believed you," the youth answered disdainfully, "I would not have accepted
salvation from you."

"Really? Why?"

"Because you are an Enemy. You fight on the side of Darkness, so your every word is
a lie, and your every deed is evil by definition."

"You're mistaken, lad," Tangorn sighed wearily. "I'm on neither the Dark nor the
Light side. If you need a label, I'm on the side of many colors."

"There is no such side, Baron," Algali bit out, and his eyes flashed. "The Battle of
Battles is coming, Dagor Dagorath, and everybody - yes, everybody! - will have to make a
choice between Light and Dark. Whoever is not with us is against us!"

"That's a lie - such a side exists, very much so." Tangom was no longer smiling. "If
I'm fighting for anything, it's for this precious Dagor Dagorath of yours to never happen.
I'm fighting for the right of those of many colors to remain such without getting dragged
into this total mobilization of yours. And speaking of Light and Dark - I suppose your
master represents the Light?"

"He's my Teacher, not my master!"

"Fine. Now look at this." With those words he took a piece of white quartz-like stone
attached to a silver chain out of his pocket. "This is an Elvish poison detector - ever seen
one?"

When immersed into their goblets, the stone gave off an ominous purple light both

times.

"Judging by the color, this poison works in about half an hour. All right, I'm an
enemy, but is poisoning one's Pupil a tradition of the forces of Light?"

Tangom never expected what happened next: Algali snatched the nearest goblet,
raised it to his lips and drained it before the baron could grab his arm.

"You're lying!" The youth's face became pale and inspired, filled with otherworldly
exultation. "And if not, then so what: it means that this is necessary to our Cause."

"Thank you, lad," the baron said after a minute's stupor, shaking his head. "You don't
even know how much you just helped me ..."

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He headed to the exit without saying goodbye, but paused at the door for one last look
at the doomed fanatic. Scary to even think of what will happen to Middle Earth, should
these boys prevail. Maybe I didn't play my part too well, but at least I played for the right
team.

Yakudze had mustered enough self-control not to hang out in front of the Green
Mackerel himself, relying on the pros from the surveillance team. Neither Tangorn's
contact with the Elvish underground nor the identity of his interlocutor concerned the Vice-
Director of DSD at the moment. He knew that the fates of both the Republic and himself
hinged on one thing only: Tangorn's next destination. Will he go right or left, to the port or
to New Town? He knew that but could do nothing about it, so all he did was pray to all the
gods he knew: to the One, to the Sun-faced, to the Unnamed, even to Eru-Iluvatar of the
northern barbarians and to Udugvu the Great Serpent. What else could he do? So when he
finally heard: "The target has left the restaurant heading to New Town," his first thought
was: which one of them had listened to my prayers? Or perhaps God is, indeed, one, and it's
just that He has different cover stories and code names for different countries?

The surveillance team leader reported, concerned: "The streets are already empty
while the target is very careful. Shadowing him will be exceedingly difficult ..."

"... and not really necessary," Yakudze finished for him and laughed; the Vice-
Director knew with certainty now that Fortune was on his side, and the anticipation of
victory - sweeter even than victory itself - filled him to bursting. "Pull back all surveillance
and tell the capture team to switch to Plan B."

Chapter 53

Umbar, 7 Jasper Street
Night of June 27, 3019

Jasper Street was deserted at night, but the habit of checking for a tail was impossible
to shake. Tangom smirked: if anyone was following him, he had an unenviable task. This
was not the port with its ever-milling crowds, but a respectable aristocratic neighborhood
whose streets held about as many people outside after dark as the Moon shining down on
them. But in reality, who would want him now that the idiot Marandil has been arrested?
Most importantly, does he want himself? Does Alviss? What he does need now is a quiet
hideout where he can sit and meditate on the following: did he fail to win at the Green
Mackerel, or did he not want to win? At the last moment, was he afraid of a victory,
remembering his unspoken deal with the Higher Powers: the end of the mission would be
the end of his earthly life? Not that he was afraid then, no - it's just that at the cusp of his
duel with Elandar he couldn't grit his teeth and do it even against his will. It was not
strength or skill he was short of then, not even luck - no, just plain persistence and courage

Thinking these thoughts, he had reached the jewelry shop of the honorable Chakti-
Vari (a bronze snake on its door informed potential thieves that the place was being guarded
by king cobras, as was the Vendotenian custom; any doubters were welcome to check),
crossed the street, checked for surveillance again and opened the little door in the eight-foot
limestone wall with his own key. Alviss' two-storey house was deep inside the garden, at
the end of a sand path. The dashes of silver liberally applied by the Moon to the oleanders'
waxy leaves made the shadows under the bushes even darker, and the cicadas were singing a
deafening chorus . . . whereas those who were waiting for the baron in the moonlit garden

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could easily hide on a freshly mowed lawn in the middle of the day and walk noiselessly
across a creaky wooden floor covered with dry leaves. Not surprisingly, the blow to the
back of the head (a large sock filled with sand - cheap and effective) took him unawares.

Plunged into a personal darkness, Tangom did not see several black-robed figures
gathering over him; nor did he see another set of figures, their robes of a slightly different
cut, coalesce out of the night around them. He did not see what happened next, either - not
that he would have made much sense of it: a nin 'yokve fight is not something a dilettante can
follow. It most resembles the chaotic dance of a pile of dry leaves blown up by a sudden
gust of wind; the battle rages in complete, totally unnatural silence, broken only by the
sound of connecting blows.

When seven or eight minutes later the baron was yanked out of his unconsciousness
by the nauseating stink of smelling salts, it was all over. Once he opened his eyes, a robed
man took the vial away from his face and stepped away without a word. His back was
against something hard and uncomfortable; in a couple of seconds he realized that he had
been carried up to the house and propped up against the entrance stairs. Robed men moved
purposefully and noiselessly about; the ones who happened to be in a large spot of
moonlight right then were dragging a man-sized sack with a pair of soft boots sticking out of
it. Two people were talking quietly somewhere to Tangom' s side, one with a drawl of a
Peninsula man; the baron kept his head motionless and strained to hear.

". . . nothing but corpses. We netted one, but he managed to poison himself."

"Yeah . . . disappointing, to put it mildly. How did this happen?"

"I've never met tougher guys. We have two dead and two maimed, first time I can
remember such losses."

"Who?"

"Jango and Ritva."

"Damn! . . . Submit a report. No traces here in five minutes."
"Yes, sir."

Approaching footsteps rustled across the grass, and a tall slender man appeared before
Tangorn. Unhke the others, he was dressed in civilian clothes, but he, too, was hooded.
"How do you feel. Baron?"

"I've been worse, thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure? ..."

"A special team of Aragom's people tried to capture you, probably for a questioning
followed by a liquidation. We interfered, but we're not counting on your gratitude, as I'm
sure you understand."

"Oh, so I was used as bait!" Having said 'bait,' the baron laughed sarcastically, but
cut it short and squeezed his eyes shut at a stab of pain in the back of his head. "Are you
DSD?"

"I'm not familiar with this abbreviation, nor is this important. I have bad news for
you. Baron: tomorrow you'll be charged with murder."
"Of Gondorian spies?"

"I wish! No, of an Umbarian citizen Algali, whom you've poisoned tonight at the
Green Mackerel."

"I see. Why wait until tomorrow?"

"Because my service is not interested in your revelations to the investigators or the
courts, for several reasons. You have until noon tomorrow to leave Umbar forever. Should
you tarry and wind up in jail, please don't blame us for assuring your silence by other

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means. Honorable Kantaridis' caravan is leaving tomorrow morning via Chevelgar
Highway. It has a couple of bactrians available; the border guards will receive your
description with an appropriate delay. Is everything clear, Baron?"

"All but one thing. The easiest solution would be to liquidate me right now. Why
don't you?"

"Professional courtesy," smiled the hooded man. "Besides, I just like your takatos."

The garden was almost empty by now, the robed figures having vanished into the
darkness from whence they came without a sound. The hooded stranger followed his men,
but right before disappearing forever into shadow between the oleanders he turned and
uttered: "Oh yes. Baron, one more bit of free advice - tread warily until you've left Umbar.
I've followed you today all the way from the Long Dam, and I can't help but feel that
you've used up all your luck. One can detect such things instantly; I'm not joking, believe
me."

It did look like his luck had run out. Well, that depends: today he lost utterly to

everyone he could - the Elves, Aragorn's men, the DSD - but managed to stay alive. No,
wait - actually, he was allowed to live, that's different. Or did he dream up the whole thing?
The garden is empty, no one to ask but the cicadas ... He got up to his feet and knew right
away that he did not dream up the blow to the head, at least: pain and nausea sloshed noisily
around in his skull at about the ear level. He put his hand inside his jacket to find the key
and felt the warm metal of the mithril mail, which he had put on back at the bank, for extra
protection before meeting Elandar. Yeah, a fat lot of good it did him today, right . . .

The moment he managed to insert the key into the keyhole, the door opened and he
faced the sleepy butler, a huge phlegmatic Southron named Unkva; Tina, scared, was
peering from behind his shoulder. He moved inside past the servants; Alviss, closing her
robe as she ran down the stairs, was already near.

"Goodness, what happened? Are you wounded?"

"No, just a little drunk." Dizziness hit him with such force that he had to lean against
a wall. "Was just passing by, thought I'd call on you for old times' sake . . ."

"Liar ..." she sniffled, and her arms went around his neck, letting the wide sleeves
drop. "God, how I'm tired of you . . ."

...They lay side by side, barely touching, and his hand glided slowly from her
shoulder down to the curve of her thigh - very lightly, as if to avoid brushing off the silvery
moonlight bathing their bodies.

He finally mustered the courage to say: "Aly!" and she, somehow sensing immediately
what he was about to say, sat up slowly, hugging her knees and putting her head down on
them. Words stuck in his throat; he touched her arm and felt her move away a tiny distance
that he would now have to spend the rest of his life crossing, without any guarantee that it
would be enough time. That was how she was: constitutionally incapable of making a
scene, she could be silent in a manner that made him feel like a total bastard for a week . . .
and that's exactly what you are. Baron. Didn't she have some sort of a matrimonial prospect
on the horizon before you showed up? She's no little girl, she's almost thirty . . . you're an
asshole. Baron, an indifferent selfish asshole.

"Your Secret Service courteously gave me until tomorrow noon to quit Umbar forever,
or they'll just kill me. I'm in their sights and can't escape. So it goes, Aly ..." This is
probably the tone in which men tell their mistresses that they can't see them while their
wives are suspecting something, he thought, and almost cringed with self -disgust.

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"You seem to be justifying yourself, Tan. Why? 1 understand - it's just Fate. And
don't worry about me," she raised her head and suddenly gave a quiet laugh, "I was more
farsighted this time around."

"What' re you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing, just woman stuff ..." She got up and put on her robe. There was
something so final in that movement that he asked involuntarily: "Where're you going?"

"To pack your things, where else?" She looked at him with a bit of surprise. "See, I
can never be a high-society dame. Sorry, I'm just not refined enough. I should' ve made a
hysterical scene right now, just for formality's sake, right?"

He had lost too much today in one fell swoop: the goal he has been striving for all
these months, his belief in himself, the country that became his second motherland (even if
against his will), and now Alviss ... Knowing that it was all over, he plunged ahead
desperately like a man leaping off the pier in a futile attempt to catch up with a departing
ship:

"Listen, Aly ... I really can't stay in Umbar, but you ... what would you say if I
asked you to go to Ithilien with me and become Baroness Tangorn there?"

"I would say," there was nothing but infinite weariness in her voice, "that you've
always been too fond of the subjunctive, unfortunately. Whereas women, by their nature,
prefer the imperative mood. Sorry."

"What if I change the mood?" He was trying as hard as he could to smile. "In the
imperative it sounds like this: marry me! Is that better?"

"That?" She stood still, eyes closed and hands clenched on her chest, as if really
listening to something. "You know, it does sound a lot better! Say it again."

He said it again, first down on one knee in front of her, then while slowly twirling her
around the room. Then she did have a bit of hysterics, laughing and crying at the same time
. . . When they finally got back to bed, she first put a finger to his lips and then took his hand
in hers and carefully pressed it to her belly, whispering: "Shh! Don't scare him!"

"So you ... I mean, we . . ." was all he could say.

"Yes! Didn't I say that I was more farsighted this time than four years ago? Now, no
matter what else happens, I'll have him. You see," she clung to Tangorn with a quiet laugh
and tenderly rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, "somehow I know for sure that it will be
a boy just like you."

He lay there in silence for some time, futilely trying to bring his thoughts into a
semblance of order - too much at once. Tangorn the adventurer's old life is over, that much
is clear, but perhaps a quiet family idyll with Alviss is precisely the end that the Higher
Powers meant? Or, conversely, am I being paid off to abandon Haladdin? But I can't do
anything else for him, my mission in Umbar has failed ... Really? What if you had an
opportunity right now to replay this and give your life in exchange for victory over Elandar?
I don't know ... half an hour ago I would' ve given it without a doubt, but now - I don't
know. Chances are, I would' ve found some decent way of weaseling out of it, to be honest.
Some trap this is . . . Oh, to hell with it all! he thought fatalistically, I have no strength left to
figure out those puzzles, trying to imagine what the Higher Powers want. Let it all be
however it will be.

He finally gave up trying to gather his thoughts, since all kinds of trivialities kept
coming up anyway. "Listen, won't you be bored in Emyn Amen? To be honest, it's quite
the backwater."

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"You know, I've had quite enough fun over my twenty-eight years here, in our capital
of the world, enough for three lives. Don't worry about it. Anyway, Baron," she stretched
most alluringly, putting her hands behind her head, "isn't it time for you to perform your
marital duties?"

"Absolutely, dear Baroness!"

Chapter 54

At dawn a vivino was singing in the garden. The bird perched on a chestnut branch
right outside their open bedroom window; at first, his sad melodic trills seemed to Tangom
to be threads plucked out of the fabric of his dreams. He slipped out of bed (carefully so as
not to disturb Alviss) and stole up to the window. The tiny singer put up his head so high
that the yellow throat feathers formed a frothy collar around his neck, and finished with an
excellent resounding note; then he turned his head in mock modesty and expectantly glanced
at the baron: did you like it? Thank you, little friend! I know that vivinos are forest
dwellers that hate the city. Did you fly here to say goodbye?

Right! the bird winked mockingly and flitted into the garden; the vivino was a true
Umbarian, stranger to Nordic sentimentality.

Bare feet pattered almost noiselessly, and warm Alviss clung to him from behind,
brushing her lips across his shoulder blades.

"What did you see out there?"

"A vivino was singing - a real vivino in the city, can you imagine?"
"Oh, that's my vivino. He's been here for almost a month."

"I see ..." Tangom drawled, feeling, funnily enough, something like a pang of
jealousy. "And here I thought that he came here for me."

"Listen, maybe he really is yours? He showed up in my garden the same time you did
. . . Yes, right around the first of the month!"

"In any event, it's the best goodbye one can wish from Umbar ... Hey, Aly, look -
there's another goodbye!" he laughed, pointing at a glum sleepy policeman stationed across
the street beside Chakti-Vari's jewelry shop. "The Secret Service politely reminds me to
tread warily until I leave . . . All right. Have you changed your mind about going today?
Maybe you want to settle your affairs here first?"

"No way!" she responded curtly. "I'm coming with you. That caravan has two
available bactrians - isn't that a sign? My solicitor will have to settle my affairs anyway,
it's a job for weeks. I suppose everything should be converted to gold, can't be much of a
market for securities up North."

"Nobody there would know what they are," he nodded, watching Alviss dress with a
smile. "Aren't we quite a sight, girl? A bankrupt aristocrat with nothing but a sword and a
moth-eaten title to his name is marrying the money of a successful widow of the merchant
class ..."

"... said widow having started her career by selling her body left and right," Alviss
concluded in the same vein. "A total misalliance no matter how you look at it, a gold mine
for gossips from both classes."

"That's for sure ..." He had a sudden thought and started figuring something.
"Listen, I just thought . . . there's plenty of time until noon. Want to get married right away?
Choose any rite."

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"Yes, darling, certainly ... I don't care which rite, either. Let's go Aritanian - their
temple is nearby."

"Aly, what's the problem? You seem unhappy."

"No, of course not! I just had a real bad premonition ... right when you started
talking marriage."

"Nonsense," he said firmly. "Let's get dressed and go. Aritanian is fine. By the way,
your stone is sapphire, right?"
"Yes, why?"

"While you pretty up, I'll have enough time to visit the honorable Chakti-Vari across
the street and buy a wedding present. It's early, but for this kind of money," he picked up
the bag with the remainder of Sharya-Rana's gold, "the old man will fly out of bed like a
startled pheasant and ..."

He cut himself short at the sight of Alviss' face: she paled abruptly and her sapphire
eyes turned black with widened pupils.

"No!! Tan, dearest, don't go, I pray you!"

"Baby, what's the matter? Another premonition?" She nodded vigorously, unable to
speak. "There's no danger - I'm out of the game, nobody wants me."

She had already gotten hold of herself. "All right, but let's go together, all right? I'll
be ready in five minutes. Promise you won't leave the house without me!"

"Yes, mommy!"

"Good boy!"

Alviss pecked him on the cheek and slipped into the corridor; Tangom could hear her
give orders to grumbling Tina. Congratulations, Baron, he thought gruffly, your beloved

will walk you over by the hand to provide security, since you're incapable of even that
much. You've quit the game beaten - not exactly conducive to self-esteem - but if you
really do obediently wait for Alviss now, you'll simply lose the right to call yourself a man.
And if her premonitions are true, then so much the worse for them. Maybe I'm not worth a
copper as a spy, but I'm still the third sword of Gondor. I have the Slumber-maker and the
mithril coat, should you guys want to risk it. Let your heads be my consolation prize, I'm
quite in the mood for that . . . Damn! He almost laughed. Looks like I'm beginning to treat
female premonitions seriously . . .

He scanned the empty garden, which was in full view from the second floor, then the
empty Jasper street with the DSD man in police uniform. Guard cobras in Chakti-Vari' s
store - so what? Feet over the windowsill, he thought fleetingly that he'd better spring
clear of the flower bed, lest Alviss chew his head off over her favorite nasturtiums.

Alviss was almost ready to go when she caught a movement in the garden in the
comer of her eye. Her heart lurched; she sprang to the window and beheld Tangom on the
garden path. Blowing her a kiss, he went towards the door. Whispering a few choice
expressions better fitting her port youth than current status, Alviss observed, with some
relief, that the baron was armed and that his stance showed caution rather than undue
attention to the beauty of the summer morning. He went through the door watchfully,
crossed the street, exchanged a few words with the policeman and stretched his hand
towards the brass knocker on the jewelry shop door . . .

"Ta-a-a-a-n! ! !" The desperate scream shattered the silence.

Too late.

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The policeman raised a hand to his mouth, and the next moment the baron sagged to
the pavement, clutching his throat convulsively.

When she ran into the street the 'policeman' was long gone, and Tangorn was living
the last seconds of his life. The poisoned thorn spat from an ulshitan - a small blow tube
used by Far Harad pygmies - struck him in the neck, a finger's width above the mithril mail;
the third sword of Gondor had no time to even draw the Slumber-maker. Alviss tried to lift
him; the baron clutched her arms in a death grip and breathed hoarsely: "Tell . . . Faramir . . .
un ... done ..."; he tried to say something else, but lacked the air to do it: the alkaloids of
the anchar tree on which the pygmies' poison is based paralyze the respiratory muscles.
The baron failed both to complete his mission and to let his comrades know about it; he died
with that thought.

A man nicknamed Ferryman, a 'clean-up guy' from Elandar's organization, observed
the scene from a nearby attic through a cobwebbed vent hole. He put his crossbow down, at
a loss to figure out who beat him to it so neatly. DSD? Too tidy for 12 Shore Street ...
What if this is another of the baron's tricks? Maybe he should plink him with a bolt, just to

be sure?

By that time Mongoose had already shed his police uniform, becoming once again a
duly accredited ambassador of His Majesty the Sultan Sagul the Fifth the Pious, the mighty
ruler of non-existent Florissant Islands. He walked briskly but without undue haste towards
the port, where a previously chartered felucca named Trepang was waiting for him. The
duel of the two lieutenants ended the way it had to end, because another way a professional
differs from an amateur is that he plays not until he has scored a beautiful goal or until he
has a psychological crisis, but rather until the sixtieth second of the last minute of the game.
By the way, for Mongoose that sixtieth second occurred at the port, where he had another
chance to demonstrate his high degree of professionalism. He himself probably would have
been unable to say exactly what it was about the Trepang'^ crew that alerted him, but he
turned to the skipper as the man stepped on the ramp after him, as if to ask a question,
chopped him across the throat with the edge of his palm and stepped off into the rusty, oily
water between the pier and the ship. The two seconds he gained thereby were enough to get
a little green pill from behind his collar and swallow it, so Yakudze's operatives only
captured another unidentified corpse (the fourth that day). The game that the special team
from Task Force Feanor played with the Umbarian Secret Service ended in a draw, nil-nil.

... Petrified with grief, Alviss held dying Tangorn in her arms. He would never find
out the most important part: it was precisely his death at the hands of the Secret Guard that
settled Elandar's doubts, so that same evening his package started north, to Lorien, via
routes unknown to any man. Nor was he to know that Alviss heard his last choking whisper
as "tell Faramir: done!" and would do everything properly ... And the Someone tirelessly
knitting the gorgeous tapestry we call History out of invisible coincidences and rather visible
human weaknesses immediately put the entire episode out of His mind: a gambit is a gambit,
you sacrifice a piece to win the game, and that's all there is to it . . .

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Part IV - Ransom for a Shadow

Over and over the story, ending as he began:

"Make ye no truce with Adam-zad - the Bear that walks like a Man!"

Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 55

Mirkwood, near Dol-Guldur
June 5, 3019

"That's a fresh track, very fresh ..." Runcorn muttered under his breath. He dropped

to one knee and, without looking back, signaled Haladdin, who was walking some fifteen
yards behind, to get off the path. Tzerlag, who brought up the rear, overtook the obediently
yielding doctor, and both sergeants engaged in an elaborate scouting ritual by a small spot of
wet clay, trading quiet phrases in Common. Haladdin' s opinion did not interest the rangers
at all, of course; not even the Orocuen's thoughts counted for much in that discussion: the
scouts have already worked out a pecking order. The erstwhile enemies - the Ithilien ranger
and the squad leader of the Cirith Ungol Rangers - treated each other with exaggerated
respect (like, say, a master goldsmith and a master swordsmith might), but the desert is the
desert, and the forest is the forest. Both professionals knew the scope of their expertise very
well. The Ithilien ranger had spent his entire life in these forests.

Back then he still walked upright and with shoulders squared (the right one was not
yet higher than the left one), while his face was yet free of a badly healed purple scar; he
was handsome, brave, and lucky, with his bottle-green Royal Forester uniform fitting him
like a glove - in other words, a serious threat to womankind. The local peasants disliked
him, which he considered normal: villeins only like accommodating foresters, whereas
Runcorn took his service with all the seriousness of youth. Being a King's man, he could
disregard the local landlords; he quickly put their courts, which under his predecessor used
to visit the royal forests like their own larder, in their place. Everybody knew the story of
Eggy the Kestrel's band that had wandered into their country once - Runcorn did away with
those guys all by himself, not deigning to wait for the sheriff's men to pry their behinds off
the benches of the Three Pint Tavern. To sum it up, the neighbors treated the young forester
with cautious respect but not much sympathy, which he did not care much for anyway. He
was used to being by himself since he was a child, and socialized with the Forest way more
than with his peers. The Forest was everything to him: playmate, interlocutor, mentor,
eventually becoming his Home. Some people even claimed that he had in him the blood of
the woodwoses - forest demons from the ominous Druadan Dell. Well, people in remote
forest villages say all sorts of things during chilly fall evenings, when only the feeble light of
a splinter keeps the ancient evils from creeping out of the dark corners . . .

To top it all off, at one point Runcorn stopped showing up at village festivities (to the
acute disappointment of all eligible maidens in the vicinity) and instead hung out at a
tumbledown shack at the edge of Druadan, where an old medicine woman from the far north
(maybe as far as Angmar) had settled some time before with her granddaughter Lianica.
Manwe only knows what such an eligible bachelor saw in that puny freckled girl; many
supposed that witchcraft was involved - the old woman certainly knew some spells and
could heal with herbs and laying of hands, which was her livelihood. Lianica was known to
talk to birds and beasts in their language and could have a ferret and a mouse sit together in

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the palm of her hand. This rumor may have been due to the fact that she avoided people (as
opposed to forest animals) so much that she was originally thought to be dumb. When
someone would mention the royal forester's strange choice, the local beauties snorted:
"Whatever. Maybe they'll make a good couple."

It did look like they would have, but it was not to be. One day the girl ran into the
young landlord, out with his merry company to hunt and 'improve the serfs' blood line a
bit;' those exploits of his had even caused some of his neighboring landlords to grumble:
"Really, young sir, this penchant of yours to screw everything that moves ..." It was a
routine matter, nothing to get excited about, really. Who'd've thought that the fool girl
would drown herself, as if something precious had been taken away from her? No, guys, it
really is true that all northerners are nuts.

Runcorn buried Lianica alone - the old woman could not bear the loss of her
granddaughter and passed away two days later without regaining consciousness. The
neighbors came to the cemetery mostly to check whether the forester would put a black-
feathered arrow on the fresh grave, signifying an oath of vengeance. But no, he did not risk
that. Nor was that a surprise; sure, he's the King's man, but the King is far, while the
landlord's bodyguard (eighteen thugs, gallows material all) is right here. Still, the guy
turned out to be much weaker than we first thought ... So did those villagers who had
foolishly bet on Runcorn's declaration of vengeance (two- or even three-to-one) grouse in
the Three Pint Tavern, sourly counting out the coins they have lost onto the sticky tables.

However, the young lord was of a different opinion - he was exceedingly prudent in
all matters that did not involve his passion for 'pink meat.' The forester did not strike him
as a man who would either let such a thing pass or go to court and write petitions (which
amounted to the same thing). That sprightly peasant girl upon whom he bestowed his favor
in the forest despite her objections (damn, the bitten finger still hurts) ... To be honest, had
he known that a man such as Runcorn was courting her, he would' ve simply passed by,
especially seeing as the girl turned out to be nothing much. But what's done is done.
Comparing his impressions with those of his chief bodyguard, the landlord became certain
that the absence of a black arrow meant only that Runcorn was not one for theatrical
gestures and cared little for the bystanders' opinions. A serious man, to be dealt with
seriously ... That same night the forester's house was set on fire from all four sides. The
arsonists propped the door shut with a large beam; when a man's shadow appeared in the
fire-lit attic window, arrows flew from the darkness below; after that, no one tried to escape
the burning hut.

A King's forester burned alive was no lousy serf that managed to get himself run over
by a landlord's horse; no cover-up was possible. Although . . .

"Everybody here thinks it was the poachers, sir. The late forester, gods rest his soul,
was real hard on them, so they struck back. A really sad story . . . More wine?" The young
landlord addressed those words to the court's magister from Harlond, who had happened to
stop at his hospitable manor.

"Yes, please! A wonderful claret, haven't had its like for a while," the magister, a
dumpy sleepy old man with a nimbus of silver hair around a pink bald spot, nodded courtly.
For a long time he admired the flames in the fireplace through the wine in a thin Umbarian
glass, and then raised his faded blue eyes - piercing icicles, not sleepy at all - at his host.

"By the way, that drowned girl - one of your serfs?"

"What drowned girl?"

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"Why, do they drown themselves every other day around here?"

"Oh, that one . . . No, she was from the north somewhere. Is it important?"

"Maybe, maybe not." The magister again raised the glass to eye level and said
thoughtfully: "Your estate, young sir, is very well-kept - an exemplar for all landlords in
this area. I figure at least two and a half hundred marks in annual rents, right?"

"A hundred fifty," the landlord lied smoothly and caught his breath: praise Eru, the
conversation was turning to real business. "But almost a half goes to taxes, and then
there're the mortgages . . ."

Poachers, you say? All right, poachers it is. A suitable candidate was soon found;
after enough time on a rack above a censer the guy made the appropriate confession and was
duly impaled on a stake, as a lesson to the other serfs. The court magister departed to town,
tenderly hugging to his side a money bag with a hundred eighty silver marks . . . All set?
You wish! ...

From the very beginning the landlord was troubled by the absence of any bones in the

ruins of Runcorn's house. The chief bodyguard, who had personally commanded that
operation, tried to calm his boss down: the house was large, with a wooden rather than
earthen floor, the fire had raged for more than an hour, so the corpse must have burned to
cinders; this does happen often. However, the young lord, being (as already mentioned)
prudent beyond his years in nearly all matters, ordered his men to examine the location once
again. His worst suspicions came true. The forester, who had had his share of surprises,
was prudent, too: a thirty-yard tunnel led from the basement outside. There were a few
recent blood spots on the tunnel floor - one of the arrows had found its mark that night.

"Find him!" the young lord ordered - quietly, but in a tone of voice that made his
hastily assembled henchmen break out in goose bumps. "It's us or him, no going back. So
far, Orome be praised, he's licking his wounds somewhere in the forest. If he escapes, I'm a
dead man, but you will all die before me, I promise."

The landlord took personal charge of the hunt, declaring that this time he would not
rest until he saw Runcorn's corpse with his own eyes. The fugitive's tracks led inside the
forest and were clearly readable throughout the day; the man had not bothered to conceal
them, apparently assuming that he was believed dead. Closer to evening the chief
bodyguard found a cocked arbalest hidden in the bushes by the trail; more precisely, the
weapon was found later, after its bolt had already buried itself in his gut. While the
bodyguards bickered around the wounded man, another arrow whistled in from somewhere,
taking a man in the neck. Runcorn gave himself away thereby - his silhouette showed
briefly between the trees some thirty yards away down the dale, and they all chased him
down a narrow clearing between the bushes. That was the forester's idea: to get them all to
run without looking down. As a result, three men wound up in that pit, more than he
expected. Eggy the Kestrel's bandits had crafted it with skill and care: eight feet deep with
sharp stakes at the bottom, smeared with rotten meat to guarantee a blood poisoning at the
very least.

Twilight fell, and the gloom deepened rapidly. The landlord's men were very cautious

now, moving along in pairs; when they finally spotted Runcorn in the bushes, they showered
him with arrows from twenty yards away rather than risk a close approach. Alas, when they
did approach the supposed corpse (right in the path of a five-hundred-pound log that
dropped from a nearby treetop), they found only a roll of bark dressed in some rags. Only
then did the landlord realize that even simply getting away from Eggy's forest stronghold

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where this damned wos had so expertly lured them would be very difficult: the night forest
around them was chock-full of deadly traps, and their four wounded (not to mention two
dead) have robbed their company of mobility. Another thing he understood now was that
their overwhelming numerical superiority was of no consequence in this situation and the
role of prey was theirs at least until dawn.

Chapter 56

They set up a defense perimeter in what was the worst possible location - an
overgrown dale with zero visibility - because moving elsewhere was even more dangerous.
There was not even a suggestion to light a fire, they were afraid to even talk, much less
expose themselves to light. Even the wounded had to be tended to by touch in pitch-black
darkness. Gripping their bows and swords, the lord's men stared and listened to the
moonless night, shooting at every rustle and every suggestion of movement in the fog rising
from rotting leaves. It ended with someone losing his nerve at about two in the morning: the
idiot yelled 'WosesT and sank an arrow into his neighbor, who had only gotten up to stretch
his numb legs; then he ran inside the perimeter, crashing through the bushes. The worst
thing that can happen in a night battle happened then: the perimeter fell apart and everyone
ran around in the dark shooting blindly, every man for himself.

This was no accident, though: the 'someone' who caused the free-for-all with a shot at
his comrade was none other than Runcorn. The forester had appropriated the cloak of one of
the dead (who were left unguarded), blended in with the lord's men as they were setting up
their defense, and waited. He certainly had a hundred opportunities to put an arrow into the
landlord and vanish into darkness in the ensuing chaos - but in his judgment the man did not
deserve such an easy death, so he had other plans.

Only at dawn did the outcome of the fight become clear to the hapless hunters - they
had lost two more men and, most importantly, the landlord himself vanished without a trace.
Supposing that he got lost in the night scuffle and secreted himself in the dark (which is the
correct solution: only a total idiot would run headlong through the night forest; a thinking
person would hide quietly under a bush until someone trips over him), the fighters started
combing the forest, calling on their lord. They found him a couple of miles away, guided by
the cackling of crows. The young lord was tied to a tree, his genitals sticking out of his
bloodied mouth - "choked on his balls," as the serfs later whispered in relish.

The entire local population joined in the hunt for the evildoer with gusto, but they
might as well have been trying to capture an echo. The former royal forester's career had
only one possible direction now - a life of robbery and death at the hands of the law.
Wounded in a fight with the sheriff of Harlond's men, broken on the rack, Runcorn was
about to grace the local gallows when Baron Grager rode into town looking to recruit
reinforcements for the decimated Ithilien Regiment. "Oh, this one'U do," said the baron in
approximately the tone of a housewife picking out a cut of ham at the butcher's ("... and
slice it thin!"); the sheriff could only grit his teeth.

The war beyond Osgiliath was going so-so; the Ithilien Regiment fought noticeably
better than any other unit and, as is customary, was the last one to be replenished. In general
reinforcements were hard to come by (the folks at Minas Tirith who screamed the loudest
about the 'need to free Middle Earth from the Eastern darkness once and for all' have all
suddenly developed pressing business on this side of the Anduin, whereas the common folk
had never cared for the War of the Ring to begin with), so the special dispensation that

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Faramir had bargained for - 'even right off the gallows' - had to be used very frequently.
Grager himself was walking in the gallows' shadow, but the reach of the courts of Gondor
was too short to grab a front-line officer in wartime.

The regiment's physician had to expend a mountain of effort to turn the bag of bones
Grager had extracted from the Harlond jail into a semblance of a man, but the famous
outlaw was worth it. Runcorn could no longer shoot a bow like he used to (his mangled
shoulder joint had forever lost flexibility), but he remained an excellent tracker, and his
experience with traps and other forest warfare tricks was truly priceless. He finished the war
with the rank of sergeant, then participated under his lieutenant's command in freeing and
elevating Faramir to the throne of Ithilien, and was just about to start building himself a
house - somewhere far from people, in the Otter Creek dell, say - when His Highness the
Prince of Ithilien invited him over. Would he kindly agree to accompany two of his guests
north, to Mirkwood?

"I'm no longer in service, my Captain, and charity is not my business."

"That's exactly what I need - a man not in my service. Nor is this charity, they're
prepared to pay well. Name your price, Sergeant."

"Forty silver marks," Runcorn blurted out off the top of his head, just to get them off
his back. But the wiry hook-nosed Ore (who seemed to be the leader) only nodded: "Done,"
and undid the money bag with Elvish embroidery. When a handful of assorted gold coins
appeared on the table (Haladdin had long wondered where Eloar might have gotten the
Vendotenian nyanmas or the square chengas from the Noon Islands), the ranger could no
longer back out gracefully.

Runcorn took all responsibility for preparations for the trip to Dol Guldur, so Haladdin
and Tzerlag enjoyed a total lack thereof. The scout tried the leather ichigas bought for them
with obvious anxiety (the Orocuen did not trust any footwear without a hard sole), but he
really liked the ponyagas the locals used instead of rucksacks. Those rigid frames of two
bird-cherry arcs conjoined at a straight angle (the wood is bent right after cutting and
becomes bone-hard when it dries) allow one to carry a lumpy hundred-pound load without
worrying about fitting it to one's back.

To the doctor's mild surprise the Orocuen decided to move from Emyn Arnen's guest
quarters where the prince had put them to the barrack of Faramir' s personal guard for the
duration. "I'm a simple man, sir, I'm like a fly in honey amidst all this luxury. It's bad for
the fly and bad for the honey." He showed up the next morning sporting a large shiner but
quite pleased with himself. It turned out that the Ithilienians, who had heard tell of the
sergeant's exploits on the night of the prince's escape, prodded him into challenging the two
best hand-to-hand fighters they had. Tzerlag won one fight and lost (or, perhaps, had the
smarts to lose) the other to complete satisfaction of all involved. Now even the Orocuen 's
dislike for beer, uncovered during long evening bull sessions, met with the rangers'
understanding: a competent man within his rights. What's the drink you got over there -
kumissl Sorry, man, we're fresh out of the stuff . . . One day Haladdin visited the barrack to
talk to his companion and noted how a lively conversation in Common died down the
moment he showed up and an awkward silence reigned - the learned doctor was nothing but
a hindrance to farmers' sons finally free of the necessity to shoot each other, a boss.

Since they did not know who was in charge in the Brown Lands on the left bank of the
Anduin, they chose a water route. They sailed all the way to the Falls of Rauros (about two-
thirds of the trip), helped by the strong even south wind that blows throughout the valley of

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the Great River at that time of year. From there they had to use light dugout canoes.
Haladdin and Tzerlag spent that part of the journey as cargo: "You don't know the River, so
the best you can do for the company is keep your asses glued to the bottom of the boat and
make no sudden moves." On June 2"*^ the expedition reached the North Undeep, a twist of
the Anduin right before the mouth of River Limlight originating from Fangom. The
Enchanted Forests began here - Lorien on the right bank, Mirkwood on the left; that left just
a tad over sixty miles to Dol Guldur as the crow flies. Faramir's men remained behind to
guard the boats (on the Rohan bank, just in case), while the three of them reached the jagged
black-green wall of Mirkwood firs the next day.

This forest was completely unlike the sun- and life-filled groves of Ithilien: complete
absence of undergrowth and bush made it resemble an endless colonnade of some mammoth
temple. Silence reigned under its ceiling, as the thick carpet of acid-green moss, dotted here
and there by little whitish flowers that resembled potato sprouts, swallowed all sound. This
stillness and the greenish twilight made for a perfect illusion of being under water, further
enhanced by 'seaweed' - unappetizing hoary beards of lichen hanging off fir branches. Not
a ray of sunlight, not a breath of a breeze - Haladdin physically felt the pressure of a thick
sheet of water. The trees were enormous, their true size given away only by the fallen ones;
these were impossible to climb over, so they had to go around them anywhere from a
hundred to a hundred fifty feet in either direction. Larger patches of storm-felled trees were
completely impassable and had to be circumvented. The insides of those trunks were carved
out by huge palm-sized ants that fiercely attacked anyone who dared touch their abode.
Twice they came across relatively fresh human skeletons; graceful coal-black butterflies
swarmed noiselessly over the bones, and this was so scary that even the jaded Orocuen made
the sign of the Eye.

Packs of werewolves and cartwheel- sized spiders turned out to be fairy tales: this
forest did not deign to actively oppose Man, being absolutely alien to him, like the expanse
of the ocean or the cold fire of Ephel Diiath glaciers; the forest's power expressed itself in
alienation and rejection, rather than confrontation, which is why forester Runcorn felt it
most acutely. It was this power that Dol Guldur had been gathering inside its charmed
stones over the ages, century after century, drop by drop. The three magic fastnesses - Dol
Guldur in Mirkwood, Minas Morgul by the Cirith Ungol pass, and Ag Jakend amidst the
lifeless high mountain plateau called Shurab in northern Khand - enclosed Mordor in a
protective triangle fed by the ancient power of the forest, the light of mountain snow, and
the silence of the desert. The Nazgiil that had erected those magical 'resonators' made them
look like fortresses in order to conceal their true purpose; one supposes that they must have
had a good laugh watching yet another Western general dazedly wander the cracked
flagstones of Dol Guldur' s courtyards, futilely trying to locate any trace of a garrison that
had been battling his soldiers. (This trick was last used two months ago: the 'mirror
garrison' had distracted the Elves and the Esgaroth militia for nearly two weeks, allowing
the real North Army to retreat to Morannon almost without casualties.) Only the castle's
dungeons were unhealthy for anyone to get into, as indicated by clear warnings in Common
chiseled into the walls.

The discussion on the path was becoming protracted. Haladdin took down his
ponyaga (as usual, the first sensation was an illusion of blissfully floating on air, quickly
replaced by the accumulated weariness of the march) and approached the rangers. Both

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sergeants looked worried: they have been walking paths through deep forest, avoiding the
road joining Dol Guldur to Morannon, and yet the scouts constantly felt human presence
even in these enchanted thickets. And now this: fresh bootprints of a Mordorian
infantryman . . . yet Sharya-Rana had mentioned no Mordorian forces near the fortress.
"Perhaps deserters from the North Army back then?"

"Unlikely ..." Tzerlag scratched his head. "Any deserter would've fled these parts
immediately, anywhere' s better than here. This one is stationed somewhere nearby: judging
by the depth of the print, he's carrying no load."

"Strange tracks," Runcorn confirmed, "the soldiers of your North Army ought to have
worn-out boots, but these look like they're fresh from the warehouse. Look how sharp the
edge of the print is."

"How do you know that these are Mordorians?"

The scouts traded slightly offended looks. "Well, the height of the heel, the shape of
the toe ..."

"That's not what I mean. Tzerlag and I here are wearing ichigas - so what?"

There was a brief silence. "Damn . . . Yeah, that's true, but why?"

There was, indeed, no sense to it, and the decision Haladdin suddenly made was
totally irrational - a stab in the dark. Strictly speaking, it was not even his decision; rather,
some unseen power ordered him to go ahead. When this happens, you either obey or quit
the game.

"All right, here's what we'll do. As I understand it, it's less than a dozen miles to Dol
Guldur. We'll go to the road now, where you will camp and I'll continue to the fortress
alone. If I'm not back in three days, I'm dead and you're to go back. Do not approach the
fortress under any circumstances. Any circumstances, understand?"

"Are you crazy, sir?" the Orocuen piped up.

"Sergeant Tzerlag," he had never even suspected himself to be capable of such a tone,
"do you understand your orders?"

"Yeah ..." the man hesitated, but only for a second. "Yes, Field Medic Second Class,

sir!"

"Wonderful. I need to have some sleep and a good think about what I'm going to tell
these guys in brand-new boots, should they be in charge of the fortress. Who I am, where
have I been all these months, how did I get here, and all that . . . why I'm shod in ichigas -
no detail is too small."

Chapter 57

Kumai turned the rudder and the glider hung motionlessly in the sky, resting its
widespread wings on empty air with ease and confidence. One could see all of Dol Guldur
plainly from up here, with all its decorative bastions and battlements, the central donjon (all
workshops now), and the thread of the road winding between heather-covered hillocks. He
scanned the environs and grinned contentedly: hiding their 'Weapon Monastery' here in the
boonies, right under the Lorien Elves' noses, was a brilliantly impudent undertaking. Many
of the colleagues gathered under the roof of the magic fortress were unsettled (some had
constant nightmares, others developed strange ailments), but Trolls are a thick-skinned
phlegmatic people who believe neither dreams nor signs, so the engineer felt great here and
worked day and night.

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Formally their chief was Jageddin - the famed master of chemistry, optics, and
electrical mechanics from the Barad-diir University - but the real master here was
Commandant Grizzly, who really did resemble a huge grey bear from the wooded foothills
of the Northeast; none of them knew his real name or his rank in the Secret Service. Kumai
could not even figure out his race; perhaps one of the northern Trolls that used to live in the
Misty Mountains until gradually assimilating into Dunlendings and Angmarians?

Kumai met the commandant immediately upon his arrival at the fortress (the
Superintendent's people got him there in stages along the Dol Guldur highway - they turned
out to have regular service there, running convoys almost every other day). Grizzly
interrogated him for several hours, going through Kumai' s entire life history with maniacal
attention to detail; about the only thing he did not ask him about were his first girlfriend's
sexual tastes. Childhood, school, military service; names and dates, specifications of flying
machines and the habits of his university drinking buddies, descriptions of supervisors in his
father's mines and the sequence of traditional toasts at TroUish feasts ... "You say that on
the day of your first flight, May 3 3014, the sky was overcast. Are you sure? ... What's
the name of the bartender at the Achigidel Bar, across from the University? Oh, right, that
bar is a block away down the boulevard . . . Engineer First Class Shagrat from your regiment
- is he tall, hunched over, with a limp? Oh, stocky and no limp ..." Any fool could see that
this was a verification procedure, but why make it so complicated? But when Kumai
mentioned a detail of his escape from MindoUuin, Grizzly made a face: "Didn't they tell you
that this is a forbidden topic?"

"But ..." the engineer was surprised, "I didn't think that this ban applies to you, too

95

"Were you told of any exceptions?"
"No ... Sorry."

"Get used to it. Very well, you've passed this test. Have some tea." With those
words the commandant moved a large round teapot with a chipped spout and a Khandian tea
bowl of finest beige porcelain and unimaginable provenance towards Kumai and got busy
studying the list of necessary supplies the mechanic had put together (bamboo, balsa wood,
Umbarian sailcloth - a panoply of stuff, no doubt to be augmented later). "By the way, your
former colleagues such as Master Mhamsuren . . . would it appreciably help your work to
have them here?"

"Of course! . . . But is such a thing possible?"

"There's nothing impossible for our Service, but you need to remember everything
you can about these people - their looks, distinctive features, friends, relatives, habits.
Every little thing helps, so please work your memory."

Another half an hour later the commandant lightly slapped a stack of freshly
handwritten sheets, summing up concisely: "If they're alive, we'll find them," and Kumai
felt with certainty - these guys will.

"Please change. Engineer Second Class." Grizzly indicated with a glance a brand-new
Mordorian uniform without any insignia (everyone here was dressed that way - Jageddin' s
scientists, service staff, and the silent Secret Service guards). "Come, I'll show you our
physical plant."

The 'physical plant' turned out to be large and diverse. For example, Kumai saw an
excellent glider of a tj^e he had never seen before: the twenty-yard span of its wings,
straight and narrow like an Elvish sword, seemed to stretch over almost nothing - some

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improbable material, lighter than balsa and stronger than stone chestnut. The 'soft' catapult
used to launch the glider was a proper match - say what you want, guys, but there are no
such materials in nature! Only then did the mechanic realize that this was the legendary
Dragon of the Nazgul, whose range was limited only by how long the pilot could stay aloft
without a break. Kumai mastered the art of flying the Dragon easily - the better a machine
is, the easier it is to handle.

Four Isengard 'blasting fire' engineers arrived at Dol Guldur at about the same time;
that was the powder-like incendiary mix resembling that long used in Mordor for festive
fireworks. A short wiry man with slightly bowed legs, called Wolverine and resembling a
Dunland highlander, was the Isengardians' escort; he became Grizzly's stand-in when the
commandant had to leave the fortress on his secret business. The Mordorian engineers were
rather skeptical at first: the drop-shaped stubby-winged ceramic jars loaded with 'blasting
fire' (soon known as simply 'powder') did have a range of almost two miles, but their
accuracy stank, to put it midly - plus or minus two hundred yards. Also, one time a 'flying
drop' exploded right in the launching channel, killing a worker who happened to be nearby.
After learning from the Isengardians that such things happened - "not all the time, mind
you, but yeah, it happens" - the Mordorians traded meaningful looks: to hell with this
'blasting fire,' guys, it's more dangerous to friend than foe.

Still, not three days after the accident the catapult drivers invited Grizzly to attend a
test firing of a new kind of shell. The first shot from the usual three hundred yards blew
eight targets to shreds; yet the new shell was just a hollow ceramic ball filled with 'powder'
and cut-up nails, set off with a fire cord used for naphtha bombs. The next step was
obvious: put the jar of 'powder' inside a larger one filled with 'fire jelly' obtained by
dissolving soap in the lighter fraction of naphtha, so that the explosion flings sticky
incendiary fluff in all directions. Grizzly examined the thirty-yard circle of earth scorched
down to the mineral layer and turned to Jageddin in amazement: "All that done by a single
jar? Congratulations, guys: finally you've come up with something worthwhile!"

That was when Kumai had the thought that one could not only sling such shells -
whether incendiary or shrapnel ones - from catapults, but also drop them from gliders.
"This makes no sense," was the objection, "how many sorties can you fly during a battle?
Two? Three? It's not worth it."

"Yes, sure, if all you do is simply drop shells anywhere on the enemy's army. But if
you hit milord Aragorn together with milord Mithrandir, it's quite worthwhile."

"You think you can hit them?"

"Sure, why not? Rather than hit a man, I'd have to hit within fifteen yards of a man."
"Listen, isn't that kinda . . . you know . . . ignoble?"

"Wha-a-a-at?!"

"No, nothing ... The old knightly wars - 'are you ready, fair sir?' - are anyway all
done with. As the One is my witness, we didn't start this."

It did look like the 'noble war' was to be no more. For example, Mordorian engineers
have made serious strides in improving the crossbow - the weapon that had always been
under an unspoken ban in Middle Earth. ("Why do you think the noble knights hate the
crossbow so much? It looks personal, doesn't it?" "Sure, we've all heard it: a distance
weapon is a coward's weapon." "No, this is more complicated. Note that no one objects to
bows much. The thing is that the best bow develops at most a hundred force-pounds at the
bowstring, while a crossbow does a thousand." "So what?" "So an archer can only bring

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down an armored knight if he hits him in the visor or an armor joint, which is a high art -
you gotta start learning at three and maybe you'll be some good by the age of twenty.
Whereas a crossbowman just shoots at the target and the bolt goes right through wherever it
hits. Which means that after a month's training a fifteen-year-old apprentice who's never
held a weapon before can wipe his nose on his sleeve, take aim from a hundred yards, and
say goodbye to the famed Baron N, winner of forty-two tournaments, and so forth ... You
know how they say in Umbar: the One created weak and strong people, and the inventor of
the crossbow made them equal? So now these strong people are mad at the demise of the
high art of combat!" "Yep. What's more, the taxed estates are beginning to scratch their
heads: what do we need all those fancy boys for, with all their coats of arms, plumages, and
all the rest? If it's to protect the Motherland, perhaps crossbowmen will be cheaper?"
"You're so down-to-earth practical, brother!" "I guess I am. Plus I'm too dumb to
understand why it's noble to knock someone's brains out with a sword but vile to do it with
a crossbow bolt.")

But the steel crossbows with 'distance glasses,' the 'flying drops,' even incendiary
shells dropped from the sky all paled next to their unseen bosses' recent demand via Grizzly.
There are several well-known gorges in the Misty Mountains where cracks in the rocks emit
a fog that quickly dissipates into still air. The few who managed to escape these gorges told
that the moment you breathe this fog you taste a revolting sweetness, and then drowsiness
hits you like an avalanche. The myriad animal skeletons littering the slopes testify to how
this drowsiness ends. You're supposed to find a way to direct such fog at the enemy.

Kumai was a man of discipline, but this idea made him queasy: to poison the very air
- some Weapon of Vengeance! Thank the One that he's a mechanic rather than a chemist
and will not have to be involved in that particular project.

He dropped two large stones from a hundred feet (same weight as the explosive shells;
they hit right next to the targets) and set the glider down right on the highway about a mile
and a half from Dol Guldur, near where the road emptied into the gloomy canyon it had
washed through Mirkwood after cutting through the sickly ruddiness of the heather expanses
like a white scar. He got out of the cockpit and sat on the side of the road, glancing
impatiently in the direction of the fortress. Soon someone will be here with the horses, and
he'll attempt to launch the Dragon right from the ground, towed by a team of horses, like
they used to do with the old gliders. Where' re those guys already? . . .

Since Kumai was mostly looking towards Dol Guldur, he only noticed the man
walking the road from the direction of Mirkwood when he was about thirty yards away.
Discerning the newcomer, the Troll first shook his head: no way! Then he sprinted towards
the man head over heels and had him in a bear hug a moment later.

"Easy, big guy . . . my ribs!"

"I have to know if you're a ghost! . . . When did they find you?"

"A while ago. Listen, first things first: Sonya is alive and well, she's with the
Resistance in the Ash Mountains ..."

Haladdin listened to Kumai' s tale, staring at the busy milling of earth bees over the
heather flowers. Yeah, abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation,
where a normal person would never go . . . leave it to the Nazgul to hide a palantir in such a
hornet's nest. I'm really lucky to have been intercepted before I had the chance to try my
clumsy story on a couple of intelligence professionals. I can't tell Grizzly and Wolverine

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the truth, either. Just imagine this picture. Some field medic, second class, shows up at
their super-extra-secret Weapon Monastery: hi, guys, I'm only here to pick up a hidden
palantir and go right back to Prince Faramir in Ithilien. I'm working for the Order of the
Nazgul, but the one who empowered me died on the spot, so no one can corroborate this
fact. I can show you a Nazgul ring as proof, but it's magic-free ... Yeah, a real pretty
picture. Chances are they'll peg me as a psycho, not even a spy. They'll probably let me
into the castle (poison experts aren't easy to come by) but they won't ever let me out - I
myself wouldn't have . . . Hey, wait a minute! . . .
"Halik, wake up! You all right?"

"Yes, I'm all right, sorry. I just had an idea. You see, I'm here on a special mission
that has nothing to do with your Weapon Monastery ... Have you ever heard of these
rings?"

Kumai weighed the ring on his palm and whistled respectfully. "Inoceramium?"
"The same."

"Do you mean to say ..."

"I do. Engineer Second Class Kumai!"

"Sir!"

"In the name of the Order of the Nazgul, will you follow my orders?"
"Yes, sir."

"Mind that your superiors in Dol Guldur must not know anything about this."
"Do you realize what you're saying?!"

"Kumai, dear friend ... I have no right to tell you the nature of the mission, but I
swear by everything that's dear, I swear by Sonya's life: this is the only thing that can still

save our Middle Earth. It's your choice. If I come to Grizzly, he'll surely want to verify my
credentials. It'll be weeks if not months while his superiors contact mine, and in the
meantime it'll be all over. You think the Nazgul are all-powerful? Like hell! They didn't
even tell me about these Secret Service games at Dol Guldur, most likely because they
themselves didn't know."

"Yeah, that's no wonder," Kumai grumbled. "When you add secrecy to our usual
mess, there's no confirming anything."

"So will you do it?"

"I will."

"Then listen and remember. There's a fireplace in the Great Hall which has a six-
sided stone in its rear wall ..."

Chapter 58

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
July 12, 3019

There's no harder work than waiting - this saying might as well be cast in bronze for
its resistance to wear. It is even harder when waiting is your only work after everything else
possible had been done and you only have to wait for the curtain signal - and wait and wait
in constant readiness, day in and day out, for a signal that may never come at all, for this is
already outside your control, with other Powers in charge.

Involuntarily idle in Emyn Amen after his Dol Guldur trip, Haladdin caught himself
sincerely envying Tangom at his deadly game in Umbar: even risking your life every day is
better than such waiting. How did he curse himself for those involuntary thoughts when a

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week ago haggard Faramir handed him the mithril coat: "... and his last words were:
'done.'"

Their return from Dol Guldur also came to his mind frequently. This time they failed
to sneak through: the fighters from Mordorian intelligence that were guarding the paths
through Mirkwood against the Elves had picked up their trail and followed them inexorably,
like wolves follow a wounded deer. At least now he knows the exact price of his life: forty
silver marks that he did not stint on paying Runcorn; were it not for the ranger's skill, they
would have most certainly stayed in Mirkwood to feed the black butterflies. They ran into a
trap on the shore of Anduin; when arrows flew, it was too late to yell: "Guys, we're
friendlies from a different service!" Back there he had shot poisoned Elvish arrows at his
own people, shot to kill, and there's no atoning for that . . .

You know what the saddest thing is, dear Dr. Haladdin? You're now bound with
blood and have lost the right to choose, the One's highest gift. You'll now be forever
haunted by the young men in Mordorian uniforms without insignia who fell in the reeds by
the Anduin, and by Tangorn, sent to certain death. Now, the moment you drop the quest
you'll be nothing but a murderer and a traitor. You have to win to make these sacrifices
worthwhile, but in order to win you have to walk over corpses and wade through
unthinkable muck, again and again - a vicious circle. And the most horrid job is still ahead
of you; that you'll be doing it with another's hands - those of Baron Grager - makes no
difference. What was it Tangorn had said back then? "An honest division of labor: clean
hands for the mastermind, clean conscience for the executor." Like hell . . .

(Tangorn ran a grand rehearsal of the key scene before he left for Umbar and
concluded dispassionately: "This won't work. You give yourself away by every look and
the very tone of your voice. One can tell that you're lying from a mile away without being
an Elf, who are a lot more perceptive than we are. Forgive me - 1 should've realized right
away that you're incapable of doing this. Even if they swallow my bait in Umbar you won't
manage to angle the fish here."

"I'll manage - 1 have to."

"No. Please don't argue, 1 won't be able to do it, either. It's not enough to have
nerves of steel to play this part convincingly knowing the full background; one has to be not
even a bastard, but completely inhuman."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all, sir. Maybe you can become inhuman in time, but we don't have the time.
The only solution is to use a cutout."
"Use a what?"

"It's our jargon. We need to involve an agent in the dark .. . sorry. In other words,
the agent - an intermediary - has to believe that he's telling the truth. Given who we're
dealing with, he has to be a top-notch professional."

"You mean Baron Grager?"

"Hmm ... As your sergeant would say: you get it, doc."
"Under what pretext can we involve him?"

"The pretext is that we're afraid that during negotiations the Elves will break into your
brains with their magic or whatnot and turn the exchange into a robbery. Which is totally
true, by the way. Plus it will be a little easier for you if you share this crock of shit with the
baron. As the famous Su Vey Gho used to say: 'An honest division of labor: clean hands for
the mastermind, clean conscience for the executor.'"

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"Who was this Su Vey Gho?"
"A spy, what else?")

The fish bit by the end of the eighty-third day of the hundred he had been allotted.
The last rays of the setting sun pierced the echoing space of the Knights Hall, empty at this
hour, breaking into orange spots against its far wall; the spots looked live and warm and
seemed to try to jump off the wall onto the face and hands of a slender girl in dusty man's
clothes, who chose to sit in Faramir's armchair. She does look like a girl, Grager thought,
although by human standards she looks about thirty, whereas her real age is scary to even
think about. To say that she's beautiful is to say nothing; one can describe great Alvendi's
Portrait of a Lovely Stranger in police search order terms, but should one? Interestingly,
this Doctor Haladdin predicted the identity and rank of the respondent like a lunar eclipse -
truly excellent work - but didn't seem at all happy about it; I wonder why?

"Milady Eomis, on behalf of the Prince of Ithilien I welcome you to Emyn Amen.
I'm Baron Grager; perhaps you've heard of me."

"Oh yes."

"Did Elandar send you Baron Tangorn's message?" Eornis nodded, took a simple
silver ring covered with scuffed Elvish runes out of some secret pocket and put it on the
table before Grager.

"This was one of the rings in the seals of your package. It belonged to my son Eloar,
who's missing in action. You know something about his fate ... did I understand your
message correctly. Baron?"

Chapter 59

"Yes, milady, you did understand correctly. Let me dot the 'i's first: like my dead
friend, I'm only an intermediary. There may be ways to search my brains with Elvish
magic, but you won't find anything there beyond what I'm about to tell you."

"You all exaggerate Elvish powers ..."

"So much the better. Anyway, your son is alive and in captivity. He will be returned
to you if we agree on the price."

"Oh, anything, anything at all - precious gems, Gondolin weapons, magic scrolls . . ."

"Alas, milady, his captors are not hostage-trading southern mashtangs. They seem to
represent Mordor's intelligence service."

Her expression did not change, but her thin fingers went white in their grip on the
armchair: "I will not betray my people for my son's life!"

"Don't you even want to know how little you'd have to do?"

After an eternity that lasted a couple of seconds she answered "I do," and Grager, the
veteran of a hundred recruitments, knew that he had won - all that was left was the
endgame, with an extra piece.

"Some preliminary explanations first. Eloar separated from his platoon and got lost in
the desert. He was dying of thirst when he was discovered, so the Mordorian insurgents
saved his life first ..."

"Saved his life? Those monsters?"

"Please, milady - all these stories about smoked human flesh might impress the Shire
bumpkins, but not me. I've fought the Ores for four years and know the score: those guys
have always admired brave foes and treated prisoners humanely - that's a fact. The problem

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is that they've found out that your Eloar had participated in so-called mop-ups - that's a
euphemism for mass murder of civilians."
"But that's a lie!"

"Unfortunately, it's an honest truth," Grager sighed tiredly. "It so happened that my
late friend Baron Tangom observed the work of Eloar' s Easterlings. I will spare your
maternal feelings by not describing what he witnessed."

"It's some horrible mistake, 1 swear! My boy ... Wait, did you just say 'Easterlings?'
Perhaps he simply couldn't restrain those savages . . ."

"Milady Eomis, a commander is as responsible for the actions of his subordinates as
for his own. That's how it is with Men, don't know about Elves. Anyway, I'm only telling
you this so that you understand that should we fail to agree on the price of his release, your
son can't place his hopes in the Convention on prisoners of war. He'll be simply turned
over to those whose relatives got 'mopped up.'"

"What ..." she swallowed convulsively, "what do I have to do?"

"First I'd like to clarify your position in Lorien's hierarchy."

"Don't they know it?"

"They do, but only from Eloar, who may have been simply trying to impress them
with his hostage value. They need to know how powerful you are: clofoel is a rank rather
than a position, right? If you do unimportant things like bring up princes or supervise
ceremonies, they see no reason to deal with you."

"I am the clofoel of the World."

"Aha ... meaning that in the Lady's cabinet you're in charge of diplomacy,
intelligence, and, more broadly. Elvish expansion in Middle Earth?"

"Yes, you can put it that way. Are you satisfied with the extent of my power?"

"Yes, quite. To business, then. There's a certain Mordorian prisoner of war in one of
the Gondorian labor camps controlled by the Elves. You set up his escape and get your son
back in exchange, that's all. I do believe that you can put your conscience at ease as far as
'betraying your people' is concerned."

"That's because Lorien would never agree to such an exchange, since the prisoner is
of the royal dynasty of Mordor?"

"I will not comment on your guess, milady Eomis, since I don't know myself. You're
right about one thing, though: should anyone in Lorien find out about our contact, it will
cost both you and your son your heads."

"Very well, I agree ... But first I need to make sure that Eloar is, indeed, alive; the
ring could've come from a corpse."

"Fair enough; please examine this note." (This was a key moment, although Grager
did not know that. But Haladdin, had he the chance to see the stony-faced Elf-woman
reading the jagged, as if scratched by a drunk, runes: dear mother I'm alive they treat me
well - would have known right away that Maestro Haddami's lengthy 'getting into
character' process had not let them down.)

"What had these beasts done to him?!"

Grager opened his hands. "They say that he's being kept in an underground prison,
which isn't exactly the groves of Lorien. So he's not in the best shape."

"What had they done to him?" she repeated quietly. "I won't lift a finger until I have
guarantees, you hear? I'll turn all the prison camps upside down and . . ."

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"You'll get your guarantees, don't worry. They wouldn't have started this whole
complicated business with setting up a secret meeting only to blow the prisoner exchange,
would they? They've even offered ..." Grager made a dramatic pause. "Would you like to
see him?"

She sat up: "Is he here?!"

"No, that'd be asking too much. You can talk to him through Seeing Stones. At the
time and day we agree upon - say, noon of August first, all right? - Eloar will look into the
Mordorian palantir while you look into yours ..."

Eomis shook her head. "We don't have Seeing Stones in Lorien."

Grager nodded. "They're aware of that. To speed things up they've offered to lend
you one of theirs. You'll return it with that prisoner - what else could you do? But they,
too, demand guarantees: there are ways to locate one palantir via another - you Elves
should know them better than me - and they're not about to reveal their location to the
enemy. Therefore, there are two non-negotiable conditions. First, the palantir you get will
be blinded by an impenetrable sack and put into 'receive' mode ... forgive me, milady, I
don't understand any of this, I'm just parroting their instructions. So, you will take the
palantir out of the sack and set it to 'two-way' mode only precisely at noon on August first.
Should you dare do it earlier - to see what things are like in Mordorian hideouts - then one
of the things you'll see will be Eloar' s execution. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Second, they demand that during this communication you must be far from Mordor,
in Lorien. Therefore, on August first, when your palantir starts sending, they want to see in
it something that can only be in Lorien ... You know, at that point they've gotten really

paranoid and we've spent almost half an hour figuring out some Lorien landmark that can't
be faked or mistaken for something else. Then someone remembered that your Lady has a
huge magic crystal that shows the future; ah, that's just what we need, they said."
"Galadriel's Mirror?!"

"They called it something else, but I'm sure you know what they're talking about."

"They have to be crazy! It's unbelievably difficult to get access to the Lady's Mirror."

"Why crazy? That's exactly what they've said: this will be her chance to prove her
position in the hierarchy . . . So: on August first, at noon, you will take the palantir out of
the sack and switch it from 'receive' to 'two-way' mode, and over in Mordor they will see
Galadriel's Mirror; then another switch and you'll see your son, alive and well ... relatively
well, anyway. Then they'll tell you who has to be rescued from which camp. All further
communication will be conducted via the palantiri. Any objections?"

"We can't do this," she said suddenly in a hollow voice; he immediately noted the
'we' - everything's going smoothly.

"What's the problem?"

"No magical objects may be brought into Lorien without the knowledge of the Star
Council. The palantiri are charged with very powerful magic, so I simply won't be able to
smuggle one past the border guard."

"They've heard of this ban, but does it apply even to a clofoel of the World?"

She smiled crookedly. "You don't fully know Elvish customs. The ban applies to
everyone, including the Lord and the Lady. The border guard obeys the clofoel of
Tranquility and no one else."

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"Well, if the border guard is the only hitch, then I'm glad to solve this small problem
that you think insurmountable," Grager said with calculated casualness. "The palantir will
be smuggled to you directly in your capital, Caras Galadhon."

"In Caras Galadhon?!" She froze in amazement and Grager felt with his very gut that
something was off.

You're afraid, he realized, for the first time during this conversation you're actually
afraid. Why now, all of a sudden? Of course, learning that right in your own capital enemy
spies can do things that you, an all-powerful royal minister, can't do, has to be a serious
shock. But the main thing is that this turn was a surprise to you, meaning that you have
more or less anticipated the rest of our conversation after receiving Eloar's ring in advance
. . . anticipated and set up a counter-game, which means that everything you've fed me so far
was what you wanted me to believe, rather than your real feelings. I should' ve figured it out
sooner: you broke and agreed to be recruited way too easily, and you had to know that this is
a recruitment and you'll be on the hook for the rest of your life - after all, we're colleagues,
in a manner of speaking . . . Sure, her son is in enemy hands and at risk of a grisly death, but
still, she's a courtier, which means she had to go through a helluva lot of intrigue and
backstabbing on her way to the clofoel 's chair, or whatever they sit on at that Star Council of
theirs. It's Haladdin's decision, of course, but in his place I wouldn't trust her with a
penknife, much less a palantir. Betcha she'll cheat the learned doctor like a little kid during
the exchange. Then again, maybe she won't . . . meaning she won't be able to. The guy has
his own aces up his sleeve: I've no idea how he's going to get that crystal over to her in the
Enchanted Forest, secretly, but I'm certain he's not bluffing.

"You've heard correctly, milady, in Caras Galadhon. You're in charge of the Festival
of the Dancing Fireflies this year, correct?"

Chapter 60

Lorien, Caras Galadhon
Night of July 22, 3019

The Elves consider the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies on the night of the full moon
of July to be one of their foremost holidays; thus an informed Lorienite can make important
conclusions regarding the true situation among Lorien' s ruling elite, 'never as united as
now,' from the identity of the person in charge and how that person goes about it. The
tiniest details carry deep meaning, being a reflection of the nuances of the merciless struggle
for power that is the only meaning of life for the immortal Elvish hierarchs. In this set-up a
totally innocent detail (such as whether the Lord of Rivendell is represented at the Festival
by a cousin or a nephew) can be much more important than, for example, the shocking re-
appearance of milord Estebar, the former clofoel of Might who had disappeared without a
trace some ten years earlier together with the other participants in the Celebrant conspiracy,
at the same occasion two years prior. The ex-clofoel stood on a talan right next to the
Lorien' s Sovereigns for a couple of hours and then sank into oblivion once again; it was
rumored (always with a careful look-around and in a whisper) that he was escorted back to
the dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning by the clofoel of Stars' maiden
dancers, rather than the guards of the clofoel of Tranquility. Why? Whatever for? This is a
great mystery.

This is the right policy: real Power, in order to remain such, has to be both inscrutable
and unpredictable - otherwise, it is merely an authority. One could recall here the story

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(from one of the neighboring Worlds) of the experts who had tried, year after year, to divine
the internal politics of a certain powerful and enigmatic state: they noted the order in which
the local hierarchs took their places on the Tomb of the Founder during state holidays, what
deviations from the alphabetical order occurred during the enumeration of their names, and
the like. The experts were competent and wise, their conclusions deep and unfailingly
logical; is it any wonder that they have never once made a correct prediction? Should
someone have engaged the aforementioned experts to analyze the situation around the
Festival of the Dancing Fireflies in Lorien, year 3019 of the Third Age, they would certainly
have produced something like this: "Since this year the responsibility for the Festival has
been assigned to the clofoel of the World for the first time ever, it follows that the
expansionists have decisively triumphed over the isolationists in the Elvish administration;
we should expect a rapid growth of Elvish presence in the key regions of Middle Earth.
Some analysts believe that the fundamental underlying factor is a shuffling of roles in the
court of the Lady, who is concerned with the inordinate strengthening of the clofoel of
Tranquility." The funniest thing is that those logical exercises would have been quite
correct in and of themselves, as is usual with this brand of analysis . . .

As for the Festival itself, it is uncommonly beautiful. Of course, only an Elf can fully
appreciate its beauty; on the other hand, man is really so primitive and puny a creature that
even the visible paltry scraps of the Festival's true splendor are quite enough for him. On
this night the inhabitants of Lorien gather on the telain close to Nimrodel; the tall mallorns
provide a magnificent view of the river valley where constellations of bright phial lamps are
strewn across the dewy fields surrounding melancholy backwaters (blackened silver, like
Gondolin chest ornaments). The night sky itself appears but a dim reflection of this glorious
display in an old bronze mirror. Strictly speaking, that is how it really is: on that night the
movements of celestial bodies over Middle Earth merely reflect faithfully the happenings on
the banks of Nimrodel. As already mentioned, a mortal can perceive only a tiny fraction of
what happens there: he can enjoy the starscape, created by the lamps in the grass and
unchanged since time immemorial, but human eyes have no business seeing the magical
patterns woven by the phials of the dancers - it is this dance that forms the basis for the
magic of the Firstborn. Very rarely do the echoes of this magic rhythm reach the world of
Men through revelations to its greatest scalds and musicians, forever poisoning their souls
with pining for unreachable perfection.

As befits the clofoel of the Festival, Eornis was in the middle of the 'sky' this
midnight, right where seven phials (six bright ones and one most bright) formed the Sickle
of the Valar on the fields of Nimrodel, the constellation whose handle points at the Pole of
the World. The clofoel of Stars and her dancers - the only ones allowed on the 'sky' -
having left for the shade of the mallorns a while ago, she was completely alone, still futilely
trying to figure out how baron Grager was going to accomplish what he promised: "By
morning light you will find the sack with the Seeing Stone in the grass close to the phial that
represents the Polar Star in the Sickle of the Valar." Access to the 'sky' is forbidden to all
other Elves, including even other clofoels, under pain of death, so there's no concern with
anyone finding the palantir before her; but how will the Mordorian spies sneak here?
Therefore ... is it, therefore, one of the dancers? But that's absolutely impossible - a
dancer connected to the Enemy! Oh yeah? What about the clofoel of the World connected
to the Enemy - is that possible?

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She objected to her own thoughts: I'm not connected to the Enemy, I'm merely
playing my own game. Sure, I will do everything to save my boy, but I'm not even
considering sticking to the conditions of their bargain. In the morning I'll have the palantir,
on noon of August first I'll learn the name of the crown prince of Mordor - who else could it
be? - and when it's time to exchange the hostages I'll make sure that they all remain in my
hands, no worries. Apparently, these Men aren't familiar with the Elves' power; well,
they'll learn.

It's not the Men that I have to fear - what can those dung worms do? - but my own
kind. When I win this game I will lay a palantir and the head of a Mordorian prince at the
feet of the Sovereigns, and no one will dare open their mouth - the winner is always right.
Whereas if I fail or they simply won't let me finish the game, the whole affair will be cast as
a pact with the Enemy, as treason. The clofoel of Tranquility would give his right hand for a
chance to charge me with that and send me to his dungeons under the Mound of Somber
Mourning ... Should he have even a shadow of doubt regarding my talks with the
Ithilienians, his Guards will start digging like only they can, and then I'm finished. I did
explain my visit to Emyn Amen to Lady Galadriel by the need to check on news from
Umbar: "Someone in Lorien, possibly the clofoel of Tranquility, has apparently begun his
own game with Aragom." Once he finds out about that conversation - which he will - he'll
have no choice but to thoroughly besmirch me in the eyes of the Sovereigns, and he'll work
hard at it.

She gave a start as it occurred to her: what if this whole business, including the events
in Umbar, is nothing but a long-term play by the clofoel of Tranquility, and a Guard's hand
will be on my shoulder the moment I pick up a sack with a stone imitating a palantirl
Elandar and those Ithilienian barons working against me for the clofoel of Tranquility?!
Nonsense ... I'm being afraid of my own shadow. How come the Ithilienian spies are
teaming with Mordorians, obviously with Faramir's knowledge? That's clear, actually: they
hope to gain, as their commission in the bargain, an Elvish clofoel compromised by working
with the Enemy, and therefore forever pliant. Which is exactly how it would' ve come out
had I any intention of playing along.

In any event there's no going back now: the only thing that will save me is victory in
this 'prisoner exchange.' Not only will it save me, it will elevate me to the next level!
Afterwards I'll find those who will put the sack with the Seeing Stone by the Polar Star
tonight; I'll do it myself, with my Service, ahead of the Guards, and expose those traitors to
the Council: "Our incomparable preserver of Tranquility had been so busy looking for
conspiracies - we all know what that's worth - that he managed to overlook a real Enemy
spy network in Caras Galadhon. Or, perhaps, he did not overlook it at all? Perhaps this
network is connected higher than I dare suggest?" He won't survive such a blow, no matter
how Lord Celebom covers for him; it will be a clear victory for the Lady and me.

In the meantime, Kumai's Dragon glided invisibly through Lorien' s night sky along
the dimly reflecting meanders of Nimrodel. Once he saw a large spread of bright bluish
lights forming a pretty good star map in the middle of a valley, the engineer relaxed and
guided the glider down; so far everything was going according to plan. He located the
Dipper, for some reason called the Sickle of the Valar in those parts, among these
'constellations' - good, just where it belongs in the real sky, with the Polar Star in the right
place. Wonder what those lamps are made from? The light is obviously cold - perhaps the
same stuff that luminesces in rotting mushrooms? The Dipper was growing fast; Kumai felt

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on the bottom of the cockpit for the sack he had extracted last night from its hiding place in
the back of the Great Hall fireplace, and suddenly cursed through clenched teeth: "Damn, he
never told me the actual size of that thing - how am I to figure my altitude in this dark?"

Haladdin had originally asked him to just retrieve the sack from the hiding place and
drop it somewhere far away from the fortress during the next training flight, so he could pick
it up and get away. Then the doctor cut himself off in mid-sentence and asked, amazed:
"Listen, maybe you can fly all the way to Lorien from here?"

"Sure, no sweat. Well, not exactly no sweat, but I can."

"What about at night?"

"Well, I haven't flown such distances at night before - it's hard to navigate."
"What if it's a moonlit night and the target site has guiding lights?"
"Then it will be easier. Do you need aerial reconnaissance?"

"No. You see, I remembered how good you've gotten at dropping shells on ground
targets. That's exactly the trick you'll need to pull off in Lorien."

Kumai had justified a night flight to his Dol Guldur superiors with a suggestion to
practice nighttime bombing. "Whatever the hell for?" "To drop incendiary shells onto
enemy camps. If you have to put out burning tents on the night before a battle rather than
get some sleep, you won't be in good shape to fight in the morning." "Hmm . . . sounds
reasonable. Very well, try it, engineer." He took off at sunset ("I'll fly around a bit until it
gets dark"), made a wide turn so as not to be seen from the fortress, and only then headed
west-north-west. He found the place where Nimrodel emptied into Anduin while it was still
light, the rest was fairly routine . . .

Kumai let go and the sack disappeared into the 'star' -studded darkness below. Two
seconds later the glider's nose covered the Polar Star: all set. If he wasn't off by much
figuring his altitude, the target has been hit. ("Is it some sort of poison?" "No, magic."
"Magic?! You got nothing better to do?" "Trust me: the Lorien bunch won't like this sack
at all." "Well, well. When things are really bad, people always swap magicians for
physicians ...") Whatever - he did his part, it's the commanders' job to know what all this
is for. The less you know the better you sleep. Time to turn around and go home; it's a long
way, plus the wind is getting stronger.

When Kumai took a habitually sweeping turn over the sleepy waters of Nimrodel, he
failed to take one thing into account: the height of the malloms. Or, rather, he had no idea
that such tall trees even existed.

There was a crash when one of their branches touched a wingtip, seemingly lightly,
instantly turning the glider into a spinning winged seed like those that the malloms drop by
the hundreds onto the wilted elanors in the fall.

There was another crash when the helpless Dragon spun right and slammed into the
neighboring treetop, tearing its skin, breaking its spine and bones.

Finally, there was a third crash when all that debris fell down along the trunk and onto
a talan full of stunned Elves, almost right at the feet of the clofoel of Tranquility.

Strictly speaking, Kumai had done his job by then and could have been written off as
an acceptable loss, with an appropriate mention of the omelet whose preparation requires
breaking a few eggs. There was, however, one complicating circumstance: the Troll got
quite banged up in the fall, but survived it - which was, understandably, a complete disaster.

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Chapter 61

Star Council of Lorien

July 23, 3019 of the Third Age

Clofoel of Tranquility: . . . Haste is advisable only when hunting fleas or dealing with
a sudden bout of diarrhea, esteemed clofoel of Might. So please don't urge me along: Trolls
are tough customers and I'll need a significant amount of time to get reliable information out
of him.

Lady Galadriel: How much time do you need, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: I believe no less than three days, o radiant Lady.

Clofoel of Might: He just wants to give his bums under the Mound of Somber
Mourning something to do, o radiant Sovereigns ! This is so simple - let him use his truth
potion and fifteen minutes later that spawn of Morgoth will spill his guts!

Lord Celeborn: Indeed, clofoel of Tranquility, why don't you use the truth potion?

Clofoel of Tranquility: Is that an order, o radiant Lord?

Lord Celeborn: No, no, please don't . . .

Clofoel of Tranquility: Thank you, o radiant Lord! It's a strange thing: were I to start
teaching the clofoel of Might how to arrange archers or cavalry for battle, he would have
taken it as an insult, and he would have been right. Whereas when it comes to detecting
criminals, somehow everyone here knows my job better than I do!

Lord Celeborn: No, please don't take it this way . . .

Clofoel of Tranquility: As for the truth potion, esteemed clofoel of Might, it has no
problem cracking open a Man's mind - as you have correctly noted, it'd take less than a
quarter-hour. The problem is sorting all the garbage that will spill from that cracked mind;
trust me, it will take more than a few weeks to sift the kernels from the chaff. The potion is
great for obtaining confessions, but what we need here is information! And what if
something is unclear at the first pass and explanations become necessary? We won't be able
to ask a second time, since he'll have turned into a drooling cretin. Therefore, please allow
me to use more traditional methods.

Lady Galadriel: That was an excellent explanation, clofoel of Tranquility, thank you.
I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I've just
thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this
investigation may uncover highly curious nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth
than with the Enchanted Forests. Lord Celeborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to
involve the clofoel of the World in the investigation, since she's better acquainted with those
specifics?

Lord Celeborn: Yes, yes, that's very reasonable! Isn't it, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: I dare not debate the directives of the radiant Lady, o radiant
Lord. But perhaps it will be easier to relieve me of this task altogether, since I am not
trusted?

Lord Celeborn: No, don't even think about it! I'd be lost without you!

Lady Galadriel: We ought to consider the good of Lorien ahead of our personal
ambitions, clofoel of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always
better than one. Do you disagree?

Clofoel of Tranquility: How can I, o radiant Lady!

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Clofoel of the World: I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed clofoel
of Tranquility. My knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they
will prove useful.

Clofoel of Tranquility: I have no doubt they will, esteemed clofoel of the World.
Lady Galadriel: This is settled, then; keep us informed, clofoel of Tranquility. What

did the clofoel of Stars wish to tell the Council?

Clofoel of Stars: I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and
esteemed clofoels of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in
the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire layout of magic in the
Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time
something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady's Mirror was delivered
to Caras Galadhon.

Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars?

Clofoel of Stars: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again
tonight . . .

Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw
brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door
seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained
to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his
hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in
something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and
swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his Ufe.
He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but -
alas! - he had nothing left to give.

"Get up. Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell
before you, so let's get underway."

There were three Elves - a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a
deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound,
moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had
strength to match a Troll's. The Elf- woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and
whispered something - obscene, to judge by her smirk - to her companion; the man
grimaced chidingly.

"Maybe you'd like to tell us something yourself, Troll?"

"Maybe I would." Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now
waiting for dizziness to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room
left. "What do I get in return?"

"In return?!" The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. "An
easy death. Is that not enough?"

"No, it's not. Easy death is already there for me; I've had a weak heart since
childhood, so torturing me is useless; it'll end when it begins."

The Elf gave a silvery laugh. "You lie beautifully and engagingly."

Kumai shrugged. "Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under
questioning, no?"

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"We are the higher-ups, Troll." The cloaked Elf sat lightly down on a chair just
brought into the cell by the leather-jacket guy. "But please continue lying, we're listening
with interest."

What's there to lie about? He's no child and understands his position. But he's no
dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms.

Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear,
cowardly dogs that they are ... He'll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having
been on a lot of special missions for a long time - but not for free. Do you promise to keep
me alive? It's such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine,
blinded and castrated, but alive?

"Say your piece, then. Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we'll find
you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?"

"Sure! Why not let him keep his life?"

Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn't get tripped up, he did have such a nickname

as a child - that brat Sonya came up with it, and it stuck to him until the University),
Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by ... Indun (that was
an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in
Tzagan-Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that's where Dad's mine is, the place is nature-
made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there ... anyway, can't come up with
anything else that'd be consistent on the spot). Yesterday . . . wait, what day is it today? Ah
yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry . . . Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-
second he received orders to fly to Lorien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the
positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair
is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with
some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy,
never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal . . . What he
looks like? An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow ... yes, he's
certain, the left one . . .

"This is very naive. Troll. I'm not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as
everything else you've told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an
interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the
mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?"

That's it, then - who would' ve thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In
any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his
interrogators. The obsequious dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs
under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling
spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would
have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf's eye in the process, not
the thing to do.

The clofoel of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly
transfixed Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist - why bother now, you dope? - and
turned to his companion with a mocking smile: "So how about spending some time alone
with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?"

"On the contrary - he's magnificent, a real beast!"

"You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But
not until after we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace - it could happen, you know

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- and take everything he knows with him ... You'd be no less upset than I with such an
outcome, wouldn't you?"

Chapter 62

"Wake up!" The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai's chair kicked him habitually
in the Achilles' tendon, the pain immediately jerking the engineer out of a second-long
blissful unconsciousness.

"Where did you fly from. Troll? What was your mission?" That was the man at the
table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after
hour), the other kicking the prisoner's heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up
or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The blows were not even that strong, but
always in the same spot, so after a dozen kicks the pain turned unbearable, making all his
thoughts about avoiding the next inevitable one ... Kumai had no illusions: this was not
even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of
water and sleep so far.

The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was
not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some
time for Grizzly and Wolverine - maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and
save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with his plot of the flight
route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone
would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I'm alive
and in the Elves' hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they do guess -
evacuate Dol Guldur? I don't know ... revelations and miracles are the One's job, mine is
to hold out and hope . . .

"Wake up!" This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out.
When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the
silver-black cloak.

"Have you ever been told that you're an incredibly lucky Man, Troll?"

He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off
the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each
eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep . . . This time
he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick -
something must've changed in their setup . . .

"Anyway, to continue: I don't know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform,
but our barristers - may they bum in the Eternal Fire! - have suddenly decided that this
makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a
prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can't be forced to break his oath and all
that ..." The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger
on it with visible disapproval. "As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so
sign here and go get some sleep."

Kumai opened his parched lips: "I'm illiterate."

"An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad . . . Print your finger, then."
"Like hell."

"Whatever, Man: I'll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody
but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange.

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That's it, you can go ... I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies, sir -
you're a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee ..."

When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the clofoel of Tranquility
bit out in his back: "You're real lucky. Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with
you personally . . . Why did you fly to Lorien, eh?"

He only believed in his victory when he saw lemhas on a small table in his cell, and -
most importantly - a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that
turned into large quivering drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it,
but he did not notice it - a man who had gone without water for several days is simply
incapable of doing so.

Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home - old
wood, couch leather. Dad's pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly
puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away
tears; Sonya and HaUk - their carefree pre-war selves - were eagerly asking him about his
adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you'd never believe . . .

Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.

He did not just talk - he answered direct questions posed by someone's soothing even

voice.

Kumai's superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: "Apparently he has
miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree.
Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved
fruitful yet." The next day, following his instructions. Grizzly sealed the engineer's papers,
including the flight maps, and sent them all to Feanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without
reading.

Lorien, Star Council

July 25, 3019 of the Third Age

Clofoel of Tranquility: ... As you can see, it is quite possible to do without torture
and the brain-busting truth potion.

Lady Galadriel: You're a real master of your craft, clofoel of Tranquility. What did
you find out?

Clofoel of Tranquility: The dragon driver's name is Kumai, his rank is Engineer
Second Class. As we suspected, he flew here from Dol Guldur. Judging by his tales, it had
been turned into a real snake nest where escaped Mordorian scientists are creating unheard-
of weapons under the auspices of their intelligence service. His real mission here was from
the Order of the Nazgul - to drop a sack with some magical item, whose nature is unknown
to him, onto the 'sky' next to Nimrodel. I believe it is the presence of that item that the
esteemed clofoel of Stars and her dancers have felt. My Guards have conducted a thorough
search of the valley of the Nimrodel, but found nothing: someone had removed the sack.
Therefore, o radiant Sovereigns - please understand me correctly - therefore, I insist that the
esteemed clofoel of the World be removed from this investigation.

Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe
that the clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped
from the sky was intended for her?

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Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that, o radiant Lady. However, only the dancers
and the clofoel of the Festival had access to the 'sky.' Had the Troll's gift been there during
the Dance of the Fireflies, they certainly would have sensed it, whereas the clofoel of the
World was the only one there after they left . . .

Lady Galadriel: Could the Elves that gather up the phials at sunrise have found that
Mordorian sack and taken it with them, out of ignorance?

Clofoel of Tranquility: They could have, o radiant Lady, and my Guards are working
on that possibility. Which is why I am only asking that the clofoel of the World be
temporarily removed from the investigation of 'the case of the Mordorian sack' until this is
ascertained, nothing more.

Lord Celeborn: Yes, this does seem a reasonable precaution, doesn't it?

Lady Galadriel: You're right as always. Lord Celeborn. However, as long as we
allow the possibility of treason by a clofoel, why don't we suppose that conspiring dancers
have indeed found the Mordorian sack that night and took it away for their own purposes?
That would explain why they still haven't found the source of such a powerful magical
disturbance in Caras Galadhon . . .

Clofoel of Stars: How am I to understand your words, o radiant Lady? Are you
accusing me of conspiring?

Lord Celeborn: Yes, Lady, I have to admit that you have lost me, too ... A
conspiracy of dancers - is such a horror even possible?! With all that they're capable of . . .

Lady Galadriel: There is no conspiracy of dancers. Lord Celeborn, please calm
down! I was speaking hypothetically, as an example. As long as we're suspecting
everybody, let it be everybody, with no exceptions; but I believe it's time for us to listen to
the clofoel of the World.

Clofoel of the World: Thank you, o radiant Lady. First of all, I would like to defend
the clofoel of Stars, strange as it may seem. She is being blamed for being unable to find a
powerful magical source in Caras Galadhon. However, I would like to suggest that this task
may be akin to looking for last year's snow.

Lady Galadriel: Could you be more clear, clofoel of the World?

Clofoel of the World: I obey, o radiant Lady! For some reason the esteemed clofoel
of Tranquility keeps talking about a magical object dropped on the 'sky' and surreptitiously
removed from there as if it was a firmly established fact . . .

Clofoel of Tranquility: It is a firmly established fact, esteemed clofoel of the World.
You and I were not the only ones present at the Troll's interrogation - at least three
independent witnesses can confirm his testimony.

Clofoel of the World: Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, your memory is playing tricks
on you, as does your predilection to see conspiracies everywhere. The Troll testified that he
had dropped a sack the contents of which he knew nothing about. Why are you looking for
a physical object? Could it not have been swamp fire or some other intangible magical filth
that simply melted in the sun and poisoned the countryside? Actually, I dare not discuss
magical techniques in the presence of the esteemed clofoel of Stars.

Clofoel of Stars: I find your suggestion quite likely, esteemed clofoel of the World.
More likely than a conspiracy of the dancers, at any rate.

Lady Galadriel: Did you want to tell us anything else in connection with the
investigation, clofoel of the World?

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Clofoel of the World: Most assuredly, o radiant Sovereigns! The esteemed clofoel of
Tranquility is convinced that Dol Guldur, from whence the dragon came, is run by Mordor,
but I have reached a different conclusion. Certainly the notion that the Troll was working on
orders from the Nazgul is nonsense - we know better than anyone that the Black Order is no
more. This Kumai's history, however, is very interesting. He was captured on the Pelennor
Fields and was rotting away at the MindoUuin quarry, as is normal, when he was rescued
precisely because he was a builder of mechanical dragons. The Troll is still convinced that
it was his country's intelligence service that got him out, but it looks like the poor man had
been swindled. Queen Arwen's entourage has reasons to believe that all those escapes from
MindoUuin had been engineered by none other than His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, who
desires Mordorian military technology. According to Arwen's data, he had set up a special
super-secret service for this purpose, the core of which are the dead he had revived with the
Shadow spell; the little that is known about these characters includes the fact that they are all
named after predators. Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, why do you think the Troll gave the
nickname Jackal to the supposed Mordorian intelligence agent when spinning his clumsy
lie? Simply because all such agents he had dealt with at Dol Guldur had such names! I have
no doubt that Aragorn's service controls Dol Guldur and had dispatched the dragon here.
This prompts the following question to the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility: what did he talk
about with Aragorn in private for over two hours, back during the latter' s January visit to
Caras Galadhon?

Clofoel of Tranquility: Excuse me, but I had talked to him by order of the radiant
Sovereigns!

Lady Galadriel: Lord Celebom, do you see the kind of interesting picture you get
when your information comes from not one, but two independent and not too friendly

sources?

Lord Celeborn: Yes, yes, you're right, but I'm a little confused . . . This idea that the
clofoel of Tranquility is connected to those . . . those living dead - it's just a joke, right?

Lady Galadriel: I do wish that it turns out to be a joke. Our first priority, then, is to
destroy Dol Guldur immediately, before they are alerted . . .

Clofoel of Might: O radiant Lady, I will burn out that snake nest!

Lady Galadriel: I seem to remember that you and Lord Celebom have already burned
it out not three months ago . . . No, I have other, more important plans for you. I will deal
with Dol Guldur myself this time: we have to knock down its walls once and for all - then it
may work. Besides, I would really like to capture one of those beasties of Aragorn's alive.
How many people man that fake fortress, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: A few dozen, o radiant Lady, I can check . . .

Lady Galadriel: There's no need. Turn a thousand warriors over to my command,
clofoel of Might, I'm leaving immediately. As for all of you . . . Clofoels of Tranquility and
the World are to continue their joint investigation; I find that their cooperative work is
producing excellent results, keep it up. The dancers and the clofoel of Stars are to continue
looking for the magical object that had been dropped on Caras Galadhon, but only together
with the Guards, lest the finder be tempted to study its magical properties alone. As for you,
clofoel of Might, you will remain in charge here and watch over all of them: those are really
children who might set the house on fire while Mom's away. For example, clofoel of
Tranquility shouldn't play soldier with his beloved Border Guard, the clofoel of Stars

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shouldn't preen before my Mirror, the clofoel of the World ... do you understand me,

clofoel of Might?

Clofoel of Might: How could I not, o radiant Lady?! I know these scheming
troublemakers like the back of my hand!

Lord Celeborn: What about me. Lady?

Lady Galadriel: You, Lord Celeborn, are to represent Lorien's supreme power, as
usual: show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that . . .

Chapter 63

Mirkwood, south of Dol Guldur
July 31, 3019

The rain seemed endless. Fall-like cold drizzle hung in the air for three straight days;
when thunder rolled, it seemed like someone leisurely kicking water out of an enormous
mattress sagging almost all the way down to earth. Over the last three days the little creek
that Grizzly's company had just run up against had turned into a raging river rolling small
stones in its path. While six men were rigging a suspended rope bridge to ferry over the
seriously wounded, the rest of the soldiers stood motionlessly on the bank. Icy rivulets ran
down their tired faces, turning sweat-soaked clothing into ice packs and steadily eroding
whatever fighting spirit they had left. Running, standing still, and icy chills - a winning
combination.

Grizzly looked at the taut rope suspending the first of the helpless wounded on chest
and waist harnesses, then at the ford where crossing horsemen fought the current, kicking up
coffee-colored water, and once again clenched his teeth. What rotten luck - he had not
expected to spend nearly an hour crossing this stupid creek, what with the Elves already
breathing down their necks. Most of his men were still desperately fighting at Dol Guldur,
their only task to preoccupy the main forces of the Elvish army that had invaded Mirkwood
the day before yesterday. Grizzly himself, having miraculously slipped through the
tightening noose of the besiegers with a column of Mordorian and Isengardian engineers in
his keep, was now going south along the highway with all possible haste, concurrently
diverting the Elvish pursuit from Wolverine, who was escaping alone with papers in his
backpack - what of the Weapon Monastery documentation they had not yet sent down.

Grizzly's entire plan hinged on the Elves' sending only a small contingent to chase
them, one they would be able to repulse once joined to Aragorn's forces guarding the Brown
Lands portion of the highway against the real Mordorians. Everything was going fine until
they ran into this damned creek ... time, they were running out of time! Grizzly stood
hidden by the mossy trunk of a Mirkwood fir, expecting to see silent shadows in grey-green
camouflage cloaks flit through the trees at any second. Actually, he was not likely to see
anything - his last experience would be the brief whistle of an Elvish arrow.

"Lieutenant, sir!" One of his subordinates showed up by his side. "The escorted
persons and personnel are all across. Your turn."

That was fast. Grizzly congratulated himself; then he froze, looking at the raging river
and treacherous water-slick boulders on its banks with a new, appreciative look. Well,
Firstborn, just you wait - betcha we'll get all the lost time back with interest.

"Sergeant!"

"Yes, sir?"

"How many steel crossbows do we have?"

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Lord Ereborn and his troop reached the creek about half an hour after Grizzly's
company disappeared in the rain on its other side. For about ten minutes the Elvish lookouts
spread around behind the trees and studied the opposite bank, seeing nothing. Then a
volunteer, one Edoreth, his sword tied up on his back, carefully entered the stream and
picked his way forward between breakers and eddies, expecting a shot at any second. When
the water reached the middle of his thighs, he got swept off his feet, but the Elf could swim
like an otter; having luckily escaped the gauntlet of boulders, he soon reached a small
backwater under the opposite bank, where large heads of yellowish foam piled up between
the branches of semi- submerged willows strung with grassy debris. Edoreth got out of the
water, waved to his friends and halted, figuring the best way to get through the slick
boulders without breaking his neck; the lookouts caught their breath and put their bows
down - it looked safe. The field manual of any army in any world demands that the scout be
given time to ascertain the situation, but Ereborn was in a hurry to catch his prey before dark
and decided to save on the precautions. Five Elves followed Edoreth at his sign.

When they were about knee-deep in the water, the loud call of a blue jay sounded over
the creek, and at that signal a crossbow volley hit from the other side. Three Elves were
either killed immediately or grievously wounded, drowned, and carried away by the stream;
the fourth had his shoulder shattered but managed to get out of the water and limp back into
the trees; the fifth fared worst of all - the bolt hit him through the gut and stuck in the spine,
leaving him sprawled at the water's edge. Time seemed to stop for Edoreth, trapped on the
enemy side: the scout had a brief moment to spy out the crossbowmen hidden higher on the
slope, even managing to count them (six), and soberly figured out the time it would take him
to unlimber his bound-up sword and close in on the enemy, slipping on the wet boulders all
along the way. He then made the only appropriate decision: dived back into the river and let
the stream carry him away. The bolt that sped after him only dinged the top of a water-
polished boulder, leaving a whitish scar smelling of singed chicken and immediately
obliterated by the rain.

Lord Ereborn was what is known as 'a young man from a good family;' he had neither
a commander's talent nor at least a warrior's blood-tempered experience, but he did have an
abundance of vainglorious courage - a very dangerous combination. Seeing that they were
dealing with a small group of bowmen covering the retreat of the main force, rather than the
rear guard of that force, the lieutenant decided to bet the farm on the crossbows' major
weakness - long reloading time (two shots per minute compared to two dozen for a bow) -
and ordered a frontal attack. His family sword Dragonclaw raised high, Ereborn blew two
trumpet blasts and waded into the stream amidst tremendous splashing. The lieutenant wore
a suit of armor of famed Gondolin sponge steel, almost as strong as mithril, so he did not
fear the arrows from the other bank.

A moment later he fully appreciated the difference between Angmarian hunting
arbalests he was familiar with and the next-generation steel crossbows developing twelve
hundred force-pounds at the bowstring. The three-ounce armor-piercing bolt hit Ereborn in
the lower right chest at eighty yards per second; the links of the Gondolin armor acquitted
themselves admirably, preventing the arrow from digging into the Elf's insides, but a half-
ton blow to the liver will knock out anyone. The bloodless face in a silvery helmet flashed
once amidst the rapids, the billowing fabric of the cloak was pulled under after it and
disappeared forever - the ancient armor turned into deadweight. The young armor-bearer

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who dashed to the rescue got a bolt straight into the bridge of his nose, and the attack fizzled
out.

Any Men, be they the savage Haradrim, the Riders of Rohan, or even Umbarian
marines, simply would have used their obviously overwhelming numbers to charge across
the cursed ford, bridging it with their corpses and crushing the few defenders in a minute or
two. Not so the Elves - the price of a Firstborn's life is way too high to lay them down like
that on the banks of some nameless Mirkwood creek. They have really come here to hunt
(albeit a very dangerous prey) rather than wage war; such attitude is not conducive to either
scaling a castle wall or running across a ford under fire. Retrieving their dead and wounded,
the Elves retreated under the cover of trees and showered the enemy with arrows. Pretty
soon it turned out that the archery duel was not going right, either (meaning to the
Firstborn). The rain was the culprit: the Elvish bowstrings were hopelessly wet and their
arrows fell harmlessly, plus it was nearly impossible to take decent aim. In the meantime,
Dol Guldur bolts kept finding their mark - truly a device of Morgoth!

The Elves had to retreat further into the forest, leaving only well-hidden lookouts by
the riverbank. Sir Taranquil, Ereborn's second-in-command, counted the bodies laid out in
a row, black butterflies already appearing over them out of nowhere (even the rain was no
obstacle!), added the four washed away by the stream, gritted his teeth and swore to himself
by the thrones of the Valar that those crossbowmen, be they Ores or whoever, would pay
dearly, and to hell with the Lady's order to capture some alive. The scouts he sent out came
back soon thereafter with bad news - no better than the events of the past hour. Both sides
of the path were blocked by windfalls - the domain of the giant ants - as far as the eye could
see; those obstructions came straight up to the water both up and down the stream, so
Taranquil' s idea to send some archers up and down the bank to make the enemy's tiny
defense force spread out was a no-go. "If we were to go back and around the windfalls -
how far back do they stretch?" "No idea, sir! Shall I check?" "No!" There was no time for
such exploits - much has been lost already and night was coming. There was no way
forward but a frontal attack.

A frontal attack does not have to be a headlong rush, though. Sir Taranquil was a
much more experienced commander than his predecessor and had no desire to cross the
creek playing a target. His fighters crept up to the trees by the ford, and the sniper duel
resumed. This time, though, the Elves have had time to swap in spare bowstrings, plus the
rain let up a little, so their arrows sped true now; finally the Elves (without a doubt the best
archers in Middle Earth) could show what they could do. The Mordorian crossbowmen
fired prone from behind boulders for cover, so their corpses were not visible from this side,
but Taranquil could warrant that they were down from six to two, at most. Only after
exploiting his advantage in fire density to the fullest did he order another attack. The other
bank responded with a drawn-out and imprecise volley - but from six crossbows once again!
Are these Morgoth' s tricks? Did they get reinforcements?

Chapter 64

Suddenly all crossbow fire ceased and a scrap of cloth tied to a scabbard waved over
the boulders. The Elvish archers had already put five arrows through it by the time
Taranquil snapped out of it and ordered: "Cease shooting!! For now," he added, quieter.
"Are they surrendering? Well, well ..." The scrap waved for a short while longer and then
the amazed Elves beheld scout Edoreth, aUve and well, sword in hand. "Come over, now!"

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"Where's the rest of them?" Taranquil inquired after checking out the natural fort.
There were six crossbows in the gaps between the boulders but only two corpses (dressed in
Mordorian uniform without insignia, but neither one an Ore by appearance; one with an
arrow in his eye, the other with half his head taken off by Edoreth's sword).

"I don't know, sir," the scout replied, abandoning the flask proffered by one of his
comrades and grudgingly interrupting his saga of how he, no doubt protected by Ulmo and
Orome themselves, managed to crawl to the enemy shore some three hundred yards
downstream, crept through the forest and fell on the enemy from the rear. "There were six
of them at first, but by the time I got to this nest there was only one bird in it," Edoreth
nodded at the half-headed corpse, "he was shooting all the crossbows in turn. 1 think that
the others have retreated, sir - they were almost out of arrows. Shall we pursue?"

When the rider from the ford caught up with Grizzly's team (this was the unheard-of
reward for the first man to be wounded - to immediately carry the news), they were having a
quick rest stop in a large heather field, which abound here at the edge of the Mirkwood in
the Brown Lands. The lieutenant listened to the dispatch silently and his face thawed a little
for the first time in three days - so far everything was going as he expected. So the Elves
did send only about a hundred hunters after them, the rest being stuck fast at Dol Guldur . . .
less however many the crossbowmen will get at that mad creek - you really can't know
where you'll gain and where you'll lose. The most important thing is that if my boys
manage to hold out for at least a couple of hours (which they will, there's no doubt of that
now), then we'll join His Majesty's forces tonight: they had to have received messages
already and even now must be on a forced march to our rescue. Watch out. Firstborn! Did
we really make it?

1 wonder where we should set up the new Weapon Monastery - perhaps indeed in
Mordor? Wait, what am 1 saying - after the Gondorian army gets involved, even the densest
of these smart guys will wise up. On the other hand, maybe that's for the best - what can
they do now? Guys, you've been serving the enemy for quite a while now - want us to turn
you over to the Resistance with appropriate explanations? No? Sure they'll keep working
on the Weapon of Vengeance for us. Well, that's all in the future; right now my job is to
deliver all escorted persons safe and sound and let the commanders sort it all out. Really,
who would' ve thought that all those Jageddins and such would become the greatest treasure
of the Crown? Well, we won't be unemployed, either - these guys take a lot of looking
after.

Imagine, they did figure out how to turn those stupid 'flying drops' into a real weapon.
That the drops' accuracy would improve dramatically if they were made to spin in flight like
an arrow was fairly obvious to them, but how do you make the damn jar spin along its axis?
They tried attaching spiral wings to it after the manner of arrow fletching - total failure.
Then someone recalled the 'ring of fire' - a kind of fireworks they used to have in Barad-diir
- a light ring on an axis spun by 'powder' -filled cylinders attached to it tangentially. So
they married this toy to the 'drop' by drilling several channels sideways through the sides of
the jar's mouth where the jet exits, and the flying jar spun like a charm.

It is the description of this particular invention that Wolverine is now carrying in his
backpack on his escape through Mirkwood. Well, he's an old hand at this, the forest is
home to him, he should make it. Once he finds the boat with a stock of food hidden in the
reeds, he can make his getaway good. It's a long way to Minas Tirith and he'll only be able

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to sail at night, but it'd make no sense to huny at this point. So even if their group doesn't
make it, His Majesty will acquire a fabulous new weapon!

A lookout interrupted his musings: "Commandant, sir! There's a rider up ahead,
galloping at full speed!"

When the lieutenant recognized the man who had dismounted near the head of the
group, he did not believe his eyes at first and then broke into a decidedly non-regulation
grin: the Old Man brought help all by himself, rather than trusting somebody else - a real
father to the troops!

"Hail, Captain!"

"At ease. Lieutenant," Cheetah saluted curtly. His grey cloak (maybe one of those
they wore on the Pelennor Fields?) and the exhausted horse were all splattered with road
mud. "Make a defensive perimeter - the Elves will be here in a quarter of an hour."

"How many?"

"About two hundred. They've crossed over into the northern Brown Lands the day
before yesterday, took the highway and are now coming to meet you."

"I see," Grizzly muttered, remembering with a sudden clarity his moment of relaxation
ten minutes ago: did we really make it? Should've knocked on some wood - my dumb
head, for example.

"Captain, you see how many men I have ... we can't hold out until the main force
arrives."

"What main force. Lieutenant? There is no main force."
"But you ..." was all Grizzly could say.

"I'm here, as you can see." The captain shrugged, the gesture momentarily making
him look absolutely civilian.

"So we were simply sold out?"

"Now, now. Lieutenant - sold out?" Cheetah drawled mockingly. "Not 'sold out,'
but 'sacrificed in the name of the Highest State Interests.' You know, the way you did with
the defenders of Dol Guldur - sacrifice the few for the many, right? Long story short -
Minas Tirith has decided that now is not the time to confront the Elves 'edge against edge,'
so all our forces and their support structures have pulled back from the highway. Dol
Guldur? What Dol Guldur? No idea what you're talking about."

"As I understand it. Captain, you didn't like that decision at all, sir?"

"I'm here, as you can see," the chief of Task Force Feanor repeated deliberately. "Our
Service doesn't allow the luxury of a resignation . . ."

"Elves! !" came a cry from up ahead, full of not even fear, but a hopeless despondency.

"No panic!" roared Cheetah; leaping into the saddle, he stood in the stirrups and,
raising a narrow Elvish sword (yes, the very one from the Field of Pelennor!) to the solidly
overcast sky, ordered: "Square formation. Lieutenant! Horsemen to the right!"

Perhaps he added something else, appropriately historic, like the "Donkeys and
scientists to the center!" that once rang over the dunes of a neighboring World under similar
circumstances. But be that as it may, those words did not make it into the history textbooks
of Middle Earth: the approaching Elvish line was too far to hear, and none of those now
taking up defense next to Cheetah were destined to see the dawn of August the first. So it
goes.

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Chapter 65

Lorien, Caras Galadhon
August 1, 3019

They have gathered in the Blue Hall of the Galadhon Palace at the crack of dawn at
the insistence of the clofoel of Stars. The morning felt like fall: crisp and cold like water in

a forest spring, so the chills that afflicted Eomis (invisibly to anyone else) may have been
due to that; at least that was what she wanted to believe. What is the Mistress of the Stars up
to? Great Eru, what if her dancers had found the palantirl No, that's impossible, but what
if they've figured out where it is? In the meantime, the main problem - how to get to the
Mirror, closely guarded by clofoel of Might's men, today at noon - remains unsolved, and I
am still bereft of ideas.

It has been clear to everyone for the past week that they had to look for a physical
object after all (the possibility of swamp fire or another magical emanation, suggested by the
clofoel of the World, has been duly checked and found untrue), and a methodical search
began. When it is said that the dancers of the clofoel of Stars 'sniff out magic,' it is a fairly
accurate metaphor: they do work like sniffing dogs. Throughout the last few days the girls
have been walking around Caras Galadhon in a trance, feeling the air with outstretched
palms, as if hunting a bird hiding in the fallen leaves or playing a game of 'hot-cold.' So far
it was 'cold' - the magical object was somewhere very close but beyond their reach. That
was as Eomis expected: she had been much more concerned with the Guards of the clofoel
of Tranquility and their banal police methods than with the dancers' magic.

Danger sneaked up on the clofoel of the World from an unexpected quarter. The
clofoel of Might, left in charge during the Lady's expedition to Mirkwood (the old battleaxe,
who never played his own games, was the only member of the Council she could really
trust), took to his duties with excessive zeal. Among other things, his subordinates have
replaced the Galadhon palace guard, so that one fine morning the bewildered clofoels
discovered that they were not allowed to come into the Blue Hall for a Council session. All
their attempts to reason with the new guards failed against their implacable "no such
orders!" Of course, the misunderstanding was rectified right away, but now everyone was
aware that nowadays the rules were being set by the clofoel of Might at his discretion until
the Lady's return. Since the Lady had directly forbidden the clofoel of Stars to access the
Mirror while she was away (a very sensible precaution), he simply barred all clofoels from
the Moon Tower where the magical crystal was kept - "can't overdo a good thing." Should
she fail to overcome this hurdle in the few remaining hours, her well-crafted plan will be for
naught and nothing will save Eloar then . . .

"How is your search going, esteemed clofoel of Stars?" Eomis inquired with courteous
indifference while they were taking their places around the Council table.

"Not good. I have asked you all to gather here for a much more grave reason ..."

Eornis looked at the ruler of the magical forces of Lorien in amazement - the woman
looked ill and her voice was strangely lifeless. It does look as serious as it can be, doesn't
it?

"I will not bother you with a detailed description of our magical rituals, esteemed
clofoels of the Council and you, o radiant Lord - we have too little time . . . perhaps no time
at all. For about a week now the dancers and I have been feeling strange pulsations in the
Mirror's magic field. First it was a light tremor, then it tumed into real convulsions, and last

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night those convulsions assumed a definite and highly unpleasant rhythm ... Do none of

you feel anything?"

The clofoel of Memory broke the ensuing silence suddenly: "I feel it!" It was hard to
tell what shocked the Council more - the report of the clofoel of Stars or this unheard-of
breach of protocol. Formally all clofoels were equals, but never before did any of the lesser
ones - all those palace librarians, nurses, and masters of ceremonies - dare interrupt the
discussions of the Sovereigns and the Big Four. "It is exactly as you describe, o esteemed
clofoel of Stars! But 1 didn't know it was caused by the Mirror . . ."

How would you ever know that, you timid mouse, Eomis thought irritably. What do
you know but your dusty Beleriand scrolls and stupid sagas? But I - how did I fail to
connect all those vibrations with the Mirror? So that's where my chills come from ... The
question is - do 1 acknowledge this fact and thereby assist that Star bitch? . . . Yes, and I
should go even further, in fact.

"I believe that the esteemed clofoel of Memory has shown tremendous courage by
openly stating what we all feel but are afraid to mention aloud. The feeling we are having is
a strong irrational fear, is it not?"

"Maybe some girls feel strong irrational fear, but 1 personally fear not a damn thing,
clofoel of the World! So don't you go around saying . . ."

"Thank you, esteemed clofoel of Might; we have taken your opinion into account. As
1 understand it, the other members of the Council share the opinion voiced by the esteemed
clofoel of the World." The clofoel of Stars bowed slightly toward Eomis. "However, our
fear is not irrational. The thing is that the Mirror . . . how should I explain this ... it is
somewhat alive. The pulsating rhythm it is now creating and we are feeling is well-known
in magic: it is the rhythm of labor pains, but in reverse. It is a horrible thing. The Mirror is
anticipating its demise and our World's with it ... It is anticipating, and trying to reach out
to us, do you see? And the stars over Lorien seem to have gone mad ..."

The clofoel of Tranquility leaned forward: "Could this be related to the magical object
your dancers can't find?"

"Yes, it could," the clofoel of Stars nodded glumly; she was obviously indisposed to
develop this idea further and even refrained from adding something appropriate about the
Guards having done no better.

"Wait, what does this mean - the demise of our World?" That was Lord Celebom;
imagine, the man actually woke up!

"Literally, o radiant Lord - one moment it exists, the other it doesn't, and we along
with it."

"Then do something! C/o/be/ of Stars! You, too, c/q/be/ of Tranquility! I... I order

you as your Lord!"

What would we ever do without your orders, o precious liege - that was what showed
clearly on the faces of the Big Four. The clofoel of Stars traded looks with the clofoels of
the World and Tranquility, lingering a bit on the clofoel of Might, and finally uttered:

"First, o radiant Lord, I must take a look at the Mirror immediately, without delay."

"Yes, of course! Go right away!"

So this is my end, thought the clofoel of the World detachedly, staring at the play of
the shades of green in the emerald of her ring. 1 can make no objection to her suggestion -
she played her cards well and the entire Council, including that doddering fool, is on her
side . . .

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However, just then a figure clad in shining armor, its size and delicacy of features
resembling those of the stone idols guarding lower Anduin, loomed over the table. While
Eornis wondered idly whether the clofoel of Might ever took off his helmet and mithril mail
(to make love, say), the man informed them of his opinion of cowards and civvies - which
are really one and the same to him! - in plain soldier's language. He, for one, feels no such
ominous rhythms, and how would the clofoel of Stars and her dancers know this childbirth
rhythm, anyway? Aren't they supposed to be virgins? In any case, he has a direct order of
the Lady not to let the clofoel of Stars to the Mirror, and any attempt to violate that order
will be treated as rebellion, with all that follows . . . Yeah, and what did you think, o radiant
Lord?!

"Yes, yes," mumbled the Lord of Lorien (obviously the inescapable wrath of the Lady
scared him a lot more than any hypothetical end of the world), "let's wait for her return from
the Dol Guldur expedition ..."

"Come to your senses, radiant Lord!" Amazed, Eornis stared at the clofoel of Memory
- the poor woman must have lost all grip on reality to utter such unthinkable words. "Our
world is already sliding into the abyss, the only one who has any chance of saving it is the
clofoel of Stars, and this idiot of the shining helmet is standing on an order received in times
immemorial! All right, can't blame a man with a bronze lump for brains, but you all - Great
Eru, can't you rise above your petty intrigues even now, on the eve of destruction?!"

Suddenly Eornis realized that the timid book mouse has simply voiced what the entire
dozen of lesser clofoels were thinking. Not just them, either, as became clear the next
second when the enraged clofoel of Might tossed his chair aside - for the clofoel of
Tranquility was already coming around the table towards him, stepping softly as a tiger,
hand on the hilt of his sword and a smile fit to freeze the Eternal Fire on his lips.

"You've just mentioned rebellion, esteemed clofoel of Might ... that's an interesting
thought, isn't it, o radiant Lord?"

"Hey, you . . . both of you ..." the Lord mumbled pitiably and shrank in his chair: the
lesser clofoels already backed to the walls, and . . .

"Stop!!" The solution that occurred to the clofoel of the World was akin to a flash of
lightning: all the pieces of the puzzle she had been trying in vain to assemble suddenly fell
into place in the only possible way. "I am speaking to you, clofoel of Might!"

He probably would not have listened to anyone else, but over the last few years' worth
of intrigues the clofoel of the World had always taken the Lady's side, and thus had some
influence over him.

"The radiant Lady did mention - in passing and half-jokingly - that the clofoel of
Stars should not preen before her Mirror. However, she had imposed no restrictions on the
other clofoels ' access to the crystal. Do you agree, esteemed clofoel of Might?"

"Yes, that's true ..."

"You see? It's settled, then: by the will of the Council I will ascend the Moon Tower.
Of course, my magical abilities can't even be compared to the talents of the esteemed clofoel
of Stars, but I'm at least capable of comprehensively reporting the Mirror's condition to
her."

The clofoel of Stars shook her head. "Do you have any idea, esteemed clofoel of the
World, how dangerous it is to look in the Mirror to anyone not protected by my magical
talents, as you've referred to them?"

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"I have no intention of looking in the Mirror - my selflessness doesn't go that far,"
laughed Eornis. "As far as I know, the radiant Lady uses Lorien's human visitors for this
purpose; they are mortal anyway, sooner or later. We happen to have one handy - that
flying Troll. I hope he hasn't been liquidated yet, has he, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility?"

"No, not yet. We'll have to fix him up some, though: when the poor slob read his
testimony, he totally fell apart - first tried to kill himself, then went catatonic."

"That's no obstacle to what we need to do. So it's agreed - you will turn the Troll
over to me before noon?"

"Agreed. However, esteemed clofoel of the World . . . I'm somewhat concerned for
your safety. A Troll is a Troll - a wild and unpredictable creature. The three of us will go
to the Moon Tower together - you, me, and him. That'll be safer."

"1 am so touched by your concern, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility."

"Not at all, esteemed clofoel of the World."

Chapter 66

The sun was already approaching its zenith when they have passed the guards of the
clofoel of Might at the entrance to the Moon Tower. The narrow spiral staircase forced them
to go single-file. The clofoel of Tranquility went first, easily taking every other step; of
course, he was not at all afraid of the Troll following him and had not even handcuffed him,
relying on a Web spell instead. Milady Eornis brought up the rear, thinking over the details
of her plan for one last time. Yes, there's a chance of success, but it's really minuscule, and
the most unpleasant part is that everything depends on a myriad of coincidences, rather than
her own abilities. In any event, her long game with the clofoel of Tranquility had reached its
end - only one of them will come out of this tower alive, and only chance will determine
which one . . .

The top chamber of the Moon Tower was a round room about ten yards in diameter,
the Mirror its only furniture. The crystal was set in a mithril setting with curved legs a foot

and a half long, so that the whole thing resembled a small table. Six lancet windows offered
an excellent view of Caras Galadhon. It's funny, Eornis reflected in passing, that this Troll
is probably the only Man to ever see the real sight of the Elvish capital, but he won't relate it
to anyone. Those guests that we intend to release are never allowed beyond the talien next
to Nimrodel, so those simpletons leave believing that we actually live on those perches . . .

"Bring him up to the Mirror, clofoel of Tranquility, but don't remove the Web just yet

Only after uttering these words did the clofoel of the World realize that the Mirror
was, indeed, in a bad way. The crystal was ink-black, the blackness lit up by pulses of
scarlet light at regular intervals; it felt distinctly like the Mirror was emitting one endless
silent scream of terror and pain. Maybe it's not good for it to be close to a palantirl she
wondered belatedly. Whatever, can't change anything at this point. Please endure this a bit
longer, she thought at the Mirror; this will all be over in a few minutes. As if in response,
the crystal almost exploded from inside with a singularly powerful scarlet flash which for
some reason reminded her of the Eternal Fire ... The thought came and went as other
matters occupied her attention: the clofoel of Tranquility had apparently noticed (felt, to be
precise) that the room was not as empty as it seemed. According to her plan, that was
exactly what he was supposed to do, without any prompting from her. Imagine the irony of
relying on one's mortal enemy's intuition and professionalism!

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The clofoel of Tranquility had thoroughly scanned the room and saw nothing
suspicious, as was to be expected. It's useless to search for anything magically here - the
Mirror generates a magical field of such intensity as to drown those of all other objects. A
totally empty room and a low 'table' on thin legs . . . Could I have hidden an object here, a
small one? Yes, I could have ... sure I could! Wait - a small object? What did the Troll
say? "About the size of a child's head!" So that's why you wanted to get up to the Mirror!

''Clofoel of the World! You're under arrest for treason. Stand against the wall!"

They stood facing each other, the Mirror between them; the clofoel of Tranquility had
bared his sword - he was not about to give that snake any chances, she was mortally
dangerous as it was.

"Unclip the dagger from your belt . . . now the stiletto in your left sleeve . . . Kick
them away with your foot! Now, we'll talk. The magic object that Star fool's dancers can't
find is attached to the bottom of the 'table,' right? One has to drop on all fours before the

Mirror to see it - surely no one will think of that. It's impossible to find it magically - the
dancers are like a dog that has to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden in a sack of crushed
pepper. An excellent idea, my compliments! By the way, what is it?"
"A palantir," Eomis responded dejectedly.

"Whoa!" He apparently never expected that. "Whose gift is it - the Enemy's?"

"No, Aragom's."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's the truth. His Majesty Elessar Elfstone is a farsighted Man, he never puts all his
eggs in one basket. You think you're the only who had talked to him privately back in
January? Get rid of me, and he won't help you in your game against the Lady."

"You're wrong, my dear: the fewer one's allies, the more valuable they become, so
he's not going anywhere. You, however, can look forward to a real education under the
Mound: the boys there are quite creative, and I'll make sure you won't die too quickly."

"To do that you'll have to offer proof of my treason, which means turning the palantir
over to the Council. Would it not be better to keep it and turn me into your agent in the
Lady's retinue? I can offer a lot, you know."

"All right, enough talking! Face the wall, now! Sit down on the floor! On the floor, I
said! How did you attach it - with magic?"

"No, just the sticky ankasar juice," she replied, and then added pleadingly, staring at
the wall: "Please listen to me . . ."

"Quiet!"

The last word came out slightly muffled: apparently, the clofoel of Tranquility behind
her back had already bent over, feeling the bottom side of the crystal - meaning that it was
time. While pretending to conduct a pitiful and useless loser's haggle, Eomis had been
pushing determinedly through the dense crashing waves of the Mirror's magic field to the
sticky grey ropes of the Web spell binding the Troll. Every spell carries an indelible imprint
of its caster's personality, making him the only one able to lift it - doing so is a mortal
danger to all others, and usually useless, too. Fortunately, a Web is created by one of the
simplest spells, purely technical and almost bereft of a personality imprint, so it's worth a
risk. Now everything will hinge on what the freed Troll will do. Of course, he's been
broken by knowledge that he had somehow told everything he knew to the enemy; the
question is - how broken? If he had turned into jelly, I'm finished; but if he's still a Man

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and would like to at least pay back the one who'd tricked him into a betrayal, I can help him.
I help him, he helps me . . .

Suddenly Eornis ripped at the Web the way one rips a bandage stuck to a wound - in
one swift movement, the only possibility here. A horrible, excruciating pain knocked her
out for a moment; so this is what lifting another's spell is like, even when it's a trifle like the
Web being removed by an Elvish clofoel ... By the time she surfaced from her
unconsciousness a few seconds later, it was all over - the clofoel of Tranquility lay prone on
the floor near the Mirror, his head turned at an unnatural angle, as if trying to see something
behind his back. The Troll must have fallen on the Elf kneeling before the Mirror from
behind and simply wrung his neck with bare hands; he was now on a windowsill, clearly
about to escape, which Eornis had no intention of stopping. She smirked: the esteemed
clofoel of Tranquility had released the Troll and imprudently looked away, while I had no
time to do anything. It happened so fast, esteemed Members of the Council! I am eternally
grateful to the late clofoel: had he not volunteered to accompany me, undoubtedly I would
have been dead . . .

Kumai had only a split second to look over the amazing panorama of the Elvish capital
while taking his last step; all those towers and suspension bridges collapsed on him like a
theatrical backdrop while six-sided flagstones raced at him. His last thought was: what if
those bastards piece me together again? . . .

Perhaps they would have (who really knows the limits of the Elves' power?), but they
had no time left for that or anything else. The sun was already at zenith, so Eornis took the
palantir out of its protective silver-shot sack and brought it right next to the maddened
Mirror, which looked fit to gallop away on its bent little legs. After waiting the prescribed
time, the clofoel of the World brought together the two orange sparks within the magic
crystal, thus switching it to 'send-receive' mode ...

Chapter 67

Arnor, the Tower of Amon Sul - Mordor, western edge of Orodruin
August 1, 3019 of the Third Age, a quarter-hour before noon

"Hold it!" Gandalf ordered in a voice hoarse with strain, as if he was supporting an
immense weight - which he was, no matter that the weight was not a physical one. All the
four wizards of the White Council were totally exhausted, sweat rolling down their wax-like
faces as they were ready to collapse. This job really took a pentagram, but their numbers
only sufficed for a square ... ah, Saruman, Saruman!

A huge map of Middle Earth, drawn somewhat schematically but with careful
attention to scale and orientation right on the stones, took up the entire floor of the hall. A
palantir rested in its middle, which corresponded to Amor, casting flashes of colored light -
yellow, blue, greenish - haphazardly in all directions. The efforts of the White Wizards
were not in vain, though - slowly the flashes merged into a steady emanation which then
separated into needle-thin colored rays. Gandalf uttered a short 'fixing' spell, which served
as a "Down!" command; the wizards repeated it in unison and let themselves relax, as if they
have just put down a cupboard full of crystalware they have been carrying. The first part of
the job was done.

The colored rays that now fanned out across the floor and beyond the walls from the
palantir in the center joined the crystal to the other six throughout Middle Earth. It was
impossible to tell exactly where on those lines the other palantiri were, but to know the

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direction was also useful. First, Gandalf studied the golden-yellow ray leading due west into
the ocean. Yellow meant that the other Seeing Stone was in regular working state, meaning
that this was the palantir of Cirdan the Shipwright, king of the Western Elves; the wizard
checked that the ray went through the part of Lindon shore where the Tower of Emyn Beraid
stood and nodded in satisfaction: their map had been drawn accurately and they could go on.

The two clouded-green rays that formed an almost straight line leading north-north-
west to the Bay of Forochel in one direction and south-south-east to the delta of the Great
River in the other were of no interest to him: those were the sunk palantiri, the two on the
lost ship of Prince Arvedui and the one carried by the Anduin from Osgiliath. The ones that
had prompted this whole exercise were azure-blue (meaning that the palantiri were working
but enclosed in silver-shot protective sacks) and led south-east, only very slightly apart. To
Mordor. Damn it all!

"Where did they get a second crystal, Gandalf?"

"Look at the map - see any lines leading to Emyn Amen? Looks like His Highness
the Prince of Ithilien has kept up his pre-war games with the East and handed Denethor's
palantir to those spawn of Morgoth, the cockered knave! I wish Aragom had strangled him
back at that hospital ..."

"Now, now, Gandalf! What if Aragom and Faramir had simply made a secret alliance
against the Elves, using the remnants of the Ores? Then it could've been Elessar Elfstone
himself that gave the Minas Tirith palantir to the Ores. I mean, everybody is now working
against the Elves, including ourselves, just separately."

Even so, Gandalf thought in constemation, the overall picture is no clearer.
Vakalabath's prophecy has many possible meanings, but it can be read as "Magic will depart
Middle Earth with the palantirf - today at noon - or not at all. How can this be? He stared
at the dark-blue rays again: one goes through Barad-diir and the eastem part of Nurnen, the
other slightly to the west, through Gorgoroth and Orodruin ... Orodruin?! So that's what
they've decided to do!

Or, perhaps . . . no, there are no such coincidences! Looks like those Mordorian idiots
have decided to drop their crystal into the Eternal Fire, thereby destroying it. What do they
hope to accomplish? Sure, this will tweak the magic fields of the other palantiri and even
the Mirror, but, really, not as drastically as to banish magic from Middle Earth! Even if
another palantir that happens to be in receiving mode is destroyed at the same time . . .

"Gandalf, look! Something strange is happening to the eastern ray!"

The head of the White Council has already noticed something weird about the ray
going through eastem Mordor: it started changing color and brightness at fixed intervals, as
if storm clouds were moving across an evening sky.

"But that's impossible!" the wizard in the blue cloak spoke again. "There's only one
thing in all of Middle Earth capable of influencing a palantir' s field - the Mirror. But the
Mirror is with the Elves in Lorien while the palantir is in Mordor ..."

A terrible guess pierced Gandalf s brain. "That palantir is not in Mordor," he rasped,
pointing at the map. "Its ray goes through eastem Mordor, tme, but first it goes through
Caras Galadhon - look at the map! - and that's where it is, right by the Mirror!"

"Wait - could this be a coincidence? The Elves of Lorien have never had a palantir,
and Cirdan' s is in place."

"They haven't before, but they do now! I don't know who made Lady Galadriel this
gift - Aragom, Faramir, or the Ores - but she put the crystals together for some reason. At

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noon the Ores - or maybe they aren't Ores, how am I to know? - will drop their palantir
into Orodruin, the Eternal Fire will jump from the Orodruin palantir to the Lorien one and
from there to the Mirror, and then it really will be all over! And when the Mirror is
destroyed, all the other Seeing Stones will turn into clots of Eternal Fire, including ours." At
those words the White wizards shrank back involuntarily, as if the deadly fire was already
singeing their faces. "There's Vakalabath's prophecy for you! Make a triangle, quick!
Help me - perhaps we'll be in time . . ."

Gandalf knelt before the palantir. A dense chain of blue- violet sparks shimmered into
existence between his palms, and he began winding it around the crystal exactly as if he was
winding woolen thread into a ball; a tangy freshness came into the air, as if a lightning had
struck somewhere nearby. The other three wizards have already poured all their power into
the head of the White Council and now stood around him motionless and silent, like statues;
none of them dared think of the all-consuming fiery dragon that could hatch out of its crystal
egg at any moment. Gandalf s hands moved faster and faster; hurry. White Wizard, there's
a lot at stake! A lot? How about everything?!

Finally he sank to the floor and just sat there for a few seconds, eyes closed. He had to
use his teeth to uncork the flask of Elvish wine - his hands were now forever numb, as if
frozen. Holding the flask between insensate palms, he drank a couple of swallows and
handed the flask to Radagast without looking. They made it, despite everything . . . The ray
of light going from their palantir to the one at Orodruin was now scarlet-purple rather than
blue; the moment those guys take their crystal out of its protective silver net, Gandalf s spell
will coil around it like a blue snake. He wouldn't want to be the one to touch that ball . . .
Now it was time to catch his breath and consider how they might grab the palantir that will
surely remain lying there among the rocks of Orodruin.

Haladdin tore himself away from contemplating the scarlet gold-tinged lava boiling
almost at his feet in the crater. Squinting and shielding his eyes with his palm, he estimated
the position of the sun, already a bit past noon. Lorien lies substantially to the west of
Mordor, so noon at Orodruin should be about a quarter-hour before Lorien' s. Looks like it's
time to take the palantir out of its bag and wait for the Mirror to appear in it - provided that
Kumai did his job ... He rebuked himself: don't dare think that! You know with absolute
certainty that he did everything exactly as requested. You can look forward to killing that
woman - all right, Elf-woman, what's the difference - in just a few minutes. Well, that's
been mulled over a thousand times. I suppose I could ask Tzerlag (there he is, snoozing by
the rocks - nerves of steel!) to 'carry out the sentence,' but that'd be really . . .

The voyage to Orodruin had not been too hard. Runcorn accompanied them to the
Hotont pass - the ranger wanted to scout a good place for a house in the upper reaches of the
Otter Creek anyway - and handed them over to Matun. The Troll saw the rendezvous with
'Haladdin' s scouting team' as a short vacation from the front lines - war still raged at home
in Mordor, whereas here, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, everything was nice and quiet.
By that time Faramir had made every possible effort to make peace with the Shadow
Mountain Trolls, fully succeeding in his diplomatic efforts last week when a delegation of
three TroUish elders visited Emyn Amen. Someone - let's not point fingers - did not like
this rapport one bit, so a special assassination team waited for the elders at the outskirts of
the Settlement. However, Baron Grager's intelligence service acquitted itself admirably: not
only did it avert the attempt, it also proved that the provocation was directed from beyond

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the Anduin. The assassins that survived the battle were let go with an order to ask His
Majesty to vary his methods a bit. In any event, Grager's proofs were enough for the elders:
they broke a traditional flatbread with the Prince of Ithilien and departed, leaving their
younger sons to serve in the prince's personal guard as a sign of their covenant. By that
time the Ithilien farmers have already established lively barter trade with the Trolls without
waiting for any royal permissions. The Elves controlling the Cirith Ungol pass watched all
that with hot fury but could do nothing about it - not enough manpower.

"How's Ivar doing, Matun? How's maestro Haddami - still amusing you all with his
jokes?"

"Haddami got killed," the Troll answered solemnly. "The One rest his soul, he was a
worthy man, even though Umbarian ..." He looked at Haladdin's face and mumbled in
embarrassment: "My apologies, sir! I wasn't thinking. What about that Gondorian of
yours?"

"He got killed, too."

"I see."

They only spent a few hours in Ivar's camp. The lieutenant tried several times to
detail guards to accompany them to Orodruin ("It's real dicey on the plains right now,
Easterling patrols are all over the place"), but the sergeant only chuckled: "You hear that,
Matun? They're gonna lead me through the desert!" He was right: helping an Orocuen in
the desert is like teaching a fish to swim, and a smaller company was much better in their
situation. So the two of them made the journey together, ending the way they started.

Yes, it was time. Haladdin untied the sack, pushed apart its stiff silver-embroidered
sides and took the heavy crystal ball in his hands, looking for the orange tuning sparks in its
pale opalescent depths.

Here in Amon Sul the distant palantir at Orodruin was reflected as a large soap bubble
some six feet in diameter. They could plainly see the unknown man turn the crystal around
in his hands - huge images of his palms moved around the surface of the ball, large and
clear enough to read their lines.

"What's happening, Gandalf? Explain!" The wizard in the blue cloak could remain
silent no longer.

"Nothing. That's the problem: nothing is happening." Gandalf s words had an even
and lifeless quality. "My spell hasn't worked. I don't understand why."
"Then ... it's all over?"
"Yes. It is."

Silence reigned; everyone seemed to be listening to the sound of the last grains of sand
streaming down the hourglass of their lives.

"Did you have a good time playing?" The voice that broke the silence was mocking,
but still as beguiling as ever. "'History will vindicate me,' eh?"

"Saruman?!"

The former head of the White Council was already heading into the hall with his firm
long stride, waiting for no permission or invitation, and everyone immediately felt that the
term 'former' was absolutely inappropriate.

He looked intently at the rays of light emanating from the palantir. "Vakalabath's
prophecy, isn't it, Radagast?" He addressed the forest wizard to the exclusion of all the
other Council members. "Aha . . . this ray leads to Orodruin?"

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"They want to destroy the Mirror," a slightly revived Gandalf put in.

"Shut up," Saruman told him without looking at him, and thrust his suddenly stone
chin at the Lorien ray, which had just dimmed again: "There's your Mirror - enjoy the sight,
wannabe demiurge ..."

"Can we help you, Saruman?" Radagast said soothingly, trying to mend bridges. "All
our magic ..."

"Yes, you can, by getting out of here immediately. Stick 'all your magic' up your
butts: haven't you understood yet that the man on Orodruin is absolutely immune to magic?
I will try reasoning with him logically, perhaps that'll work ... Move!" he yelled at the
Council members milling uncertainly at the doors. "Get the hell out, I said! This place is
going to blow so high, you'll be collecting your balls for weeks!"

Paying no further attention to the quickly departing White wizards, he handled the
palantir to put it into 'send-receive' mode and called softly: "Haladdin! Doctor Haladdin,
can you hear me? Please respond."

Chapter 68

A few excruciatingly long seconds passed before a surprised voice sounded from the
depths of the palantir. "I hear you! Who's calling me?"

"I could have introduced myself as a nazgiil and you would have never known the lie,
but I will not. I am Saruman, head of the White Council."

"The former head . . ."

"No, present." Saruman glanced over his shoulder at the white cloak abandoned by
Gandalf in his haste lest the thing catch on something as he careened down the stairs. "For
about three minutes already."

For a few seconds the palantir was silent.

"How do you know my name, Saruman?"

"There aren't that many people in Middle Earth who are absolutely closed to magic. It
stands to reason that the Nazgiil would pick one such to implement Vakalabath's prophecy

"Pardon me?"

"There's an obscure ancient prophecy saying that one not-so- wonderful day 'magic
will depart Middle Earth with the palantiri.' The date of this event is encoded in a
complicated manner; we have been combining the numbers in that prophecy and expecting
this event at several different dates, but so far it has not happened. Today is one of those
days, and as I understand it, the Nazgul have decided to use Vakalabath to destroy the
palantiri and the Mirror - 'the World is Text . . . ' You will now drop your palantir into
Orodruin, the palantir in Lorien will bum the Mirror with Eternal Fire, and the magical
world of Arda will perish forever."

"Why would it perish?" the palantir asked after a second.

"Ah, I see. Apparently, you have dealt with Sharya-Rana, correct?"

"Why would you think so?" There was a hint of bewilderment in Haladdin' s voice.

"Because that is his theory of Arda's make-up: two worlds, a 'physical' one and a
'magical' one, joined through the Mirror. The Elves, having crossed from the other world
into this one, will unavoidably undermine its very existence with their magic, therefore the
Mirror should be destroyed in order to isolate those worlds to their mutual benefit. Close
enough?"

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"Do you mean to say that it's all a lie?" Haladdin responded coldly.

"Not at all! It is one of the theories of the World's structure, but no more than that.
Sharya-Rana, whom I respect greatly, held this theory, as was his right, but for you to act in
accordance with it . . ."

"What do the other theories say? Please tell me, esteemed Saruman; we still have
time. When it's time for me to drop the palantir into Orodruin, I'll give you warning."

"You are very gracious, Haladdin, thank you. Very well - the mainstream opinion is
that the 'physical' and 'magical' worlds are indeed separate and the Mirror and the palantiri
did indeed originate in the magical one, but they are not here, in the physical world, by
chance. Those crystals constitute the very foundation of that other world's existence, like
that fairy-tale needle - remember, the one hidden in an egg which is hidden in a duck which
is hidden in a hare which is hidden in a chest? By destroying the Mirror with the palantiri
you will simply destroy the entire magical world. The irony is that they have been placed in
this non-magical world precisely for safekeeping, just like the chest in the fairy tale. Of
course, you might say that these are that other magical world's problems for which you care
not. I have to disappoint you - the worlds are symmetrical."

"You mean to say," Haladdin spoke slowly, "that there's something which is the basis
of our world's existence that's been placed for safekeeping in that other, magical world?
Our own needle in an egg and so forth?"

"Precisely. By destroying the other, alien world you will doom yours. Sometimes
twins are born conjoined; obviously, if one kills the other, he, too, will soon die of blood
poisoning. When you drop the palantir into Orodruin' s maw, the other world will perish
instantly, while this one will start dying a long and painful death. Nobody knows how long
this dying will last - a minute, a year, a century - do you want to find out?"

"That's if you're right and Sharya-Rana is wrong."

"Certainly. Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct? A
radical experiment, as they call it in your circles?"

The palantir was silent - Haladdin was at a loss for words.

"Listen, Haladdin," Saruman continued with apparent curiosity, "have you really
started all this to put the Elves in their place? Aren't you overestimating their importance?"
"Something like this is better to overdo, you know."

"Then you do believe that the Elves are about to control the entire Middle Earth? My

dear doctor, this is bizarre! Whatever the Elves' capabilities are - and they are greatly
exaggerated by human rumor, believe me - there's only about fifteen thousand of them,
perhaps twenty thousand, in the entire Middle Earth. Think about it - a few thousand, and
there will be no more; while there are millions of Men, and their numbers keep growing.
Believe me that Men are already strong enough not to be afraid of Elves; this is some kind
of an inferiority complex on your part! ..."

Saruman continued after a pause: "Sharya-Rana is correct that our Arda is unique: it is
the only World which has direct contact between the physical and magical worlds, where
their inhabitants - Elves and Men - can talk to each other. Just think of the possibilities this
offers! In a very short time you and the Elves will live together in harmony, enriching each
other with your cultural achievements."

"Live as directed by the Far West?" Haladdin smirked.

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"That depends on you. Do you really lack minimal self-respect, enough to think
yourselves clay in the hands of some otherworldly forces? I'm honestly ashamed to hear
this."

"So a time will come when the Elves will look at Men as something other than dung
under their feet? I wish I could believe you!"

"There was a time when Men would eat anyone not from their cave, but now you have
learned to behave a little differently, haven't you? That's exactly how it will be with you
and the Elves, if you give it time. You are so very different, and that's precisely what makes
you need each other, believe me."

The palantir fell silent; Haladdin slumped as if a rod had been taken out of his spine.

"Who's that, sir?" Tzerlag, standing some ten paces away, lower on the slope, looked
at the crystal with superstitious fear.

"Saruman, Lord of Isengard, Head of the White Council, and so on and so forth . . .
He's trying to talk me out of dropping the palantir into the Eternal Fire, lest the whole world
perish."

"Is he lying?"

"I think so," Haladdin answered after some thought.

In reality he was not sure of that at all; the opposite, in fact. Saruman could very well
have said something like "the Nazgul have lost the fight and decided to destroy the world
with your hands on their way out" and persuasively corroborate that theory (how did
Haladdin know that the Nazgul were the good guys? Only from Sharya-Rana's words). He
could, but he did not, and somehow that fact made Haladdin trust everything the White
Wizard was saying. "Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct?"
Yes, that's how it comes out.

He has succeeded, Haladdin realized with sudden horror. I have doubts, and therefore
I have irretrievably lost the right to act: to interpret doubt for the defendant's benefit is too
deeply ingrained in me. To do what I intended while knowing of the possible consequences
(which I now do, thanks to Saruman) one has to be either God or a madman, and I'm
neither. Nor can I do it and say later that I was following orders - that's not my style ...
Plus you really don't want to fry that Elvish beauty with your own hands, right? Right, I
don't, to put it mildly - is that a plus or a minus?

Forgive me, guys . . . forgive me, Sharya-Rana, and you. Baron! (In his mind he went
down on his knees.) Everything you've done has been for naught. I know that I'm
betraying you and your memory, but the choice I have to make is beyond me ... or any Man
- only the One can make such a choice. All I can do is block my palantir from transmitting
and drop it into Orodruin; let what may come do so without my participation. I'm not cut
out to decide the fate of the World - I'm made from a different kind of clay . . . and should
you want to say: from crap, not clay - I accept that.

As if to confirm this decision of his, the palantir suddenly lit up from within and
showed him the interior of some tower with lancet windows, something resembling a low
table on curved legs, and a deathly pale - and somehow even more beautiful for that - face
of Eomis.

Chapter 69

It is truly amazing what trifles change the course of history sometimes. In this case
the matter was decided by the interruption of blood flow to Haladdin' s left calf muscle due

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to the uncomfortable position he had assumed over the past few minutes. The doctor got a
cramp in his leg; when he got up awkwardly and leaned over to relieve the pain in his calf,
the smooth globe of the palantir fell out of his hand and rolled slowly down the crater's
almost-level outer slope. Tzerlag, who stood a little below, interpreted his commander's
muffled oath as an order and lunged at the crystal ball . . .

"No-o-o-o-o! !" The desperate scream shattered the silence.

Too late.

The Orocuen grabbed the palantir and froze in an awkward pose; his body shimmered
with bluish-purple sparks, as if frosted. Desperately Haladdin rushed to his comrade and
knocked the devil's toy out of his hands without thinking, in one motion; it took him a
couple of seconds to realize with astonishment that it had not harmed him.

The purple sparks went out, leaving a strange frosty smell behind, and the Orocuen
toppled slowly sideways onto the gravel; Haladdin heard a strange clunking sound. He tried
to lift the sergeant and was amazed by his body's weight.

"Doctor, what's happening to me?" The Orocuen' s face, usually expressionless or
smiling, showed fear and bewilderment. "Can't feel my hands or feet ... at all ... what's
happening?"

Haladdin took his wrist but jerked his hand back in surprise: the Orocuen' s hand was
cold and hard as stone . . . Merciful God, it is stone! A couple of fingers on Tzerlag' s other
hand broke off in the fall, and the doctor was now looking at the fresh break shimmering
with tiny crystals - snow-white porous calcite of the bones and the darkly pink marble of the
muscles shot with bright-red garnet of blood vessels - and marveling at the astonishing
exactness of this stony imitation. The Orocuen' s neck and shoulders were still warm and
living; feeling the arm, Haladdin realized that the boundary between stone and flesh was a
bit higher than the elbow, slowly moving up the biceps. He was about to utter some
comforting lie like 'a temporary loss of sensation due to an electrical discharge,' concealing
the nature of the problem with fancy medical terminology, but the scout had already noticed
his mangled hand and understood everything.

"Don't leave me like this, hear? The strike of mercy - now's the time . . ."

"What happened, Haladdin?" the palantir came to life with Saruman's alarmed voice.

"What happened?! My friend is turning to stone, that's what! Your work, bastards?!"

"He touched the palantirV. Why did you let him ..."

"Devil take you! Lift the spell right now, you hear?"

"I can't do that. It's not my spell - why would I need to do that? - and it's impossible
to lift someone else's spell, even for me. It must be how my stupid predecessors have tried
to stop you."

"I don't care whose spell it is! Do what you can or else drag the one who did it over to
your palantirl"

"They're all gone already ... I regret this deeply, but I can do nothing for your friend
even at the cost of my own life."

"Listen, Saruman." Haladdin managed to get hold of himself, realizing that yelling
would accomplish nothing. "It looks like my friend will turn to stone in five or six minutes.
If you manage to lift the spell during that time, I'll do what you're asking me to do: block
this palantir's transmission and throw it into Orodruin. How to do it is your problem, but if
you can't, I'll do what I intended to do, although, to be honest, you've almost convinced me
otherwise. Well?"

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"Be reasonable, Haladdin! Would you destroy a whole World - two Worlds, actually
- to save one man? It won't even save him when he dies later together with the World ..."
"I don't give a shit about your worlds, understand?! For the last time - will you try or

not?"

"I can only repeat what I've said before to those idiots of the White Council: 'What
you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake.'"

"Oh yeah? Then I'm dropping my ball into the crater! Run like hell if you can! You
can figure yourself how many seconds you've got - I've never been good at figuring in my
head..."

Wolverine, lieutenant of the Secret Guard, was also facing a difficult choice at about
the same time.

He had already reached the shores of the Anduin and had a good chance of reaching
the boat that would save him when the Elves dogging his heels managed to chase him onto a
kurum - the kind of a boulder- strewn slope that the real wolverines favor for their lairs.
Trying to take a shortcut, the lieutenant ran straight across the kurum, leaping from boulder
to boulder. It is most important to maintain one's momentum and never stop when moving
like that - jump and bounce, jump and bounce. This is not too difficult in dry weather, but
now, after several days of rain, the lichens covering every boulder with black and orange
spots were water-logged, and every such spot was mortally dangerous.

Wolverine had barely made it across a half of the slope when he realized that the
pursuers were closer than he thought: arrows began falling around him. Those arrows
arrived on high trajectories at the very end of their range, but the lieutenant knew too much
of the Elves' skill - the best archers in Middle Earth - not to steal a glance backwards.
After another leap he pushed off a large boulder with his left foot while turning to the left -
and that was when the soggy lichen, slippery as the proverbial banana peel, gave way under
his Mordorian boot (I knew this hard-soled footwear would fail me!) and Wolverine was
thrown to the right into a narrowing crevice. His breaking fingernails left rips across the
lichen spots on the top of the boulder, but failed to hold him. A stupid thought flitted across
the lieutenant's mind - "wish I were a real wolverine" - right before his right ankle, stuck in
the crevice like in a steel trap, cracked and shot a bolt of unbearable pain through his spine,
knocking him out.

Strangely, his unconsciousness had lasted a very short time. Wolverine managed to
prop himself up in the crevice so as to rest his weight on the uninjured leg. Now he could
unstrap his backpack and force it over his head and in front of him. The sheaf of Dol Guldur
papers had an ignition charge of 'fire jelly' attached to it (praise Grizzly for thinking of
everything!), so all he had to do now was strike a flint of the Mordorian igniter - an air-tight
porcelain bottle filled with the light fraction of naphtha. Only after untying the cord of the
backpack and locating the igniter in his pocket did he think to look around, leaning back (it
was impossible to turn around) just in time to see column-like figures in grey-green cloaks
kind of slowly falling on him from the pale noon sky. With but a few yards separating him
from the pursuing Elves, the lieutenant knew with certainty that of the two duties left to him
in this life - setting off the ignition charge and chewing the green pill of salvation - he only
had time to perform one, and an officer of Task Force Feanor should know which one took
priority ... So it was that the last sight Wolverine saw before a blow to the head knocked

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him out was that of the bluish naphtha flame licking the slightly frayed saltpeter-soaked fire
cord.

He came to in a large forest clearing with a good view of the valley of the Great River.
His hands were tied behind his back, his Mordorian uniform was all singed tatters, and the
entire left side of his body was one large bum - the device had worked, praise Aule!

Belatedly he saw an Elf squatting to the left of him, on the side of the eye almost covered
with dried ichor. The Elf was disgustedly wiping the mouth of his flask with a rag -
apparently, he had just been pouring Elvish wine down the prisoner's throat.
"You awake?" the Elf inquired in a melodious voice.

"Mordor and the Eye!" Wolverine responded automatically. (Imagine dying as an Ore!
Well, them's the breaks . . .)

"Quit pretending, dear ally!" The Firstborn was smiling, but his eyes burned with
such hatred that his vertical cat's pupils narrowed into tiny slits. "You are going to tell us
everything about those strange games of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, aren't you, beastie?
There shouldn't be any secrets between allies."

"Mordor ... and ... the Eye ..." The lieutenant's voice was still even, although
Manwe only knew the effort it took: the Elf had casually dropped his hand to the prisoner's
broken ankle and . . .

"Sir Engold, look! What's that?!"

At the cry of his comrades the Elf turned around and stared, transfixed, at something
resembling a colossal dandelion swiftly grow to the sky beyond the Anduin, right where
Caras Galadhon ought to be - a thin blinding-white stalk crowned with a bright-red bulbous
'flower.' Almighty Eru, if this thing is indeed in Galadhon, how huge must it be? What
Galadhon? There's probably not even ashes left there ... A strangled cry made him turn
back: "Sir Engold, the prisoner! What's happening to him? . . ."

Fast as he turned, it was all over before he could see it happen. The prisoner was dead
and no physician was necessary to confirm that. In a few moments, right under the gaze of
the stunned Elves, the man had turned into a skeleton covered here and there in remnants of
mummified skin. The brown-yellow skull, its eye sockets filled with sand, grinned at
Engold from between shrunken blackened lips, as if mockingly inviting him to ask his
questions - unmerse me in the truth potion, perhaps that will help?

And in the palace in Minas Tirith Aragom watched in astonishment the subtle changes
taking place in the face of Arwen, seated across from him. Nothing seemed to change,
really, but he felt with absolute certainty that something important, perhaps the most
important, was going, slipping away like a blissful morning dream slips from memory . . .
some magical incompleteness of her features, which became completely human. When this
metamorphosis was over in a few moments, he reached a verdict summing up that period of
his life: a beautiful woman, no question about it. Very beautiful, even. But that's all.

None of his subjects saw that, nor would they have ascribed any importance to it had
they seen it. What they did dutifully reflect in the chronicles of that day was another event
of that noon: when the Mirror was destroyed in Lorien, the other six palantiri remaining in
Middle Earth detonated, too, and a monstrous geyser almost half a mile high shot up from
the Anduin-receiving Bay of Belfalas. The geyser spawned a forty-foot tsunami that wiped
out several fishing villages and their inhabitants; it is doubtful that anyone recognized that
those unfortunates, too, were victims of the War of the Ring.

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The most surprising thing is that despite his powers of observation and insight His
Majesty Elessar Elfstone had not connected those two events that happened at noon of
August the first of the Year 3019 of the Third Age and in a sense became its final moment,
either. For sure, no one after him had ever connected them, having had no opportunity to do
so.

"Bend the arm, quick!" Haladdin ordered, tightening the tourniquet above Tzerlag's
left elbow. "Keep the rag pressed there, lest you bleed out."

The sergeant's hand de-petrified the moment the volcano swallowed the palantir, so
now his blood gushed like it always does when a man loses a couple of fingers. They had
no means to stop the bleeding other than the tourniquet: it turned out that the blood-clotting
medicines from the Elvish medkit, including the legendary mandrake root (which reputedly
could even patch a severed artery), have stopped working entirely. Who would have
thought that this was magic, too?

"Listen ... so we won, right?"

"Yes, dammit! If it can be called victory . . ."

"I don't understand. Field Medic, sir ..." It seemed that the sergeant's lips, grey with
blood loss, had trouble obeying him. "What do you mean - 'if it can be called victory'?"

Don't you dare, Haladdin told himself. That had been my decision; I have no right to
burden anyone else with it, not even Tzerlag, not even a tiny bit. He must not even suspect
what he had just witnessed and indirectly caused, for his own good. Let all this remain our
personal Dagor Dagorath to him - a victorious Dagor Dagorath . . .

"What I mean is . . . You see, not a soul in Middle Earth will believe in our victory.
No victory parades for us, you know? Mark my words: the Elves and the Men from beyond
the Anduin will find a way to portray themselves as the winners anyway."

The Orocuen nodded and held still for a moment, as if listening to the slowly
subsiding growl of the Fire Mountain. "Yeah. That's how it's gonna be, no doubt. But
what do we care?"

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Epilogue

"What will History say?"
"History, sir, will lie - as always."
Bernard Shaw

Dare to err and to dream.
Friedrich Schiller

Our narrative is based entirely on Tzerlag's detailed tales, however incomplete, that
are preserved by his clan as an oral tradition. It should be stressed that we have no
documents that might attest to their veracity. The person who might have been expected to
leave the most thorough account - Haladdin - had recorded not a word on the subject; the
other participants in the hunt for Galadriel's Mirror - Tangorn and Kumai - remained silent
for obvious reasons. Therefore, whoever would like to declare the whole thing to be the old-
age demented ravings of an Ore who wanted to recast the finale of the War of the Ring is
free to do so with clear conscience. After all, that's what memoirs are for: to let veterans
turn their losses into victories after the fact.

On the other hand, those who consider this story to be, if not a true, then at least a
plausible version of history, might be interested in certain events outside its immediate time
frame. Tzerlag related that he had accompanied Haladdin from Orodruin to Ithilien; the
doctor seemed very ill and didn't say ten words in a row throughout the journey. On one of
their stops the sergeant fell in a sleep so deep that he woke up only by next evening,
nauseous and with a monster headache. Instead of his comrade he found the mithril mail by
his side, with a farewell letter wrapped in it. Haladdin wrote that Middle Earth was now free
from the Elvish menace and that in his capacity as the commanding officer of the operation
he thanked the sergeant for excellent service and awarded him the precious armor. As for
the doctor himself, regretfully he had "paid such a price for victory as to see no place for
himself among people." Those words led the scout to fear the worst, but fortunately, the
hunch did not pan out: judging by his tracks, Haladdin had simply reached the Ithilien
highway and took it to points south.

Interestingly, a few years ago a certain light-minded doctoral student at the Umbar
University's Medieval History Department took this legend at face value and invested the
effort to comb the account books of several Eastern monasteries, which have been keeping
records for the last fifteen hundred years with an unnatural meticulousness. Guess what -
the smart aleck did unearth a very curious coincidence: in January 3020 (by the then current
calendar) an Umbarian-looking man did join the Gurwan Aren cave monastery in the
mountains of North Vendotenia. The new monk took an oath of silence and donated an
inoceramium ring to the monastery. This led the student to make (to quote the minutes of
the departmental meeting) "a hasty, unfounded, and completely unscientific claim of identity
of the said monk and the legendary Haladdin." Naturally, the doctoral committee
administered a proper tongue-lashing to the wannabe ghost-hunter, so that the young man
forswore departures from his approved dissertation topic and has been dutifully dusting clay
fragments from the garbage piles of Khand's Seventh Dynasty ever since.

As for the real Haladdin, his name can be found in any university course on history of
science - as an example of the dangers of sudden leaps forward - rather than physiology, his
life's work. His brilliant studies of nerve tissue function had been so far ahead of his time as
to fall out of scientific context and be forgotten. Only three centuries later did the medics of

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the Ithilien School come across his works accidentally while searching for ancient antidote
recipes. It became clear then that Haladdin had beaten the famous Vespuno by more than a
hundred years; not only did he prove experimentally the electric nature of axon stimulation,
but he also predicted the existence of neurotransmitters, and even modeled how they should
work. Unfortunately, only historians are interested in the 'who was there first' kind of
things; the scientific community has no use for this information. In any event Haladdin' s
last known work is dated year 3016 of the Third Age and the official version is that he
perished during the War of the Ring.

Let's go back to Tzerlag, whose historicity is beyond doubt. As is known, the
occupation of Mordor ended suddenly and inexplicably by the winter of 3020, and life there
started slowly getting back to normal. The city population had suffered tremendous losses
(strictly speaking, the Mordorian civilization had not fully recovered since then), but the
nomads have mostly avoided those tribulations. The sergeant used to say that a real man
whose hands are attached properly (rather than to his butt) will come out on top whatever
the situation, and proved this maxim with his entire life. After returning to his home
grounds, he ended up the founder of a large and powerful clan, which had preserved the tale
of his journeys in its oral tradition, as is customary with nomadic peoples.

Incidentally, the fate of the other sergeant, Runcorn, was almost the same as Tzerlag' s,
aside from the fact that the ex-ranger lived on the other side of the Mountains of Shadow in
the valley of the Otter Creek, rather than on the Morgai plateau. The hamlet he built under a
strange name Lianica had grown into a regular village in only five years. When his little son
found Ithilien' s first gold nugget in the creek's gravel bed while fishing, the neighbors only
shrugged: money always attracts money. Had he and the Orocuen met in their old age,
undoubtedly they would have put their Mirkwood debates on the comparative advantages of
dark beer and kumiss to a practical test, but it was not to be.

Tzerlag had decided to return the mithril coat to Haladdin 's girl together with the tale
of his vanished friend's heroic achievement. But Kumai had perished, and the scout himself
knew nothing of the girl beside the name Sonya (very common among Trolls) and vague
knowledge of her participation in the Resistance, so all his efforts to locate her failed. The
despairing Orocuen then decided that he and his clan were the keepers rather than the
owners of the artifact; the nomads' punctiliousness in such matters is truly without limit.
The sergeant's great-great-grandson ended up donating it (together with the associated
headaches) to the Nurnen History Museum, where anyone can see it today together with the
other relics of the mysterious Mordorian civilization. At this point the apologist for the
legend might say: "Aha! Isn't the coat of mail proof enough for you?" The grave and
absolutely correct answer would be that the coat proves nothing even within Tzerlag 's
narrative, since Haladdin had obtained it before receiving the nazgul's ring.

By the way, concerning mithril . . . There is a total of four such coats of mail in the
museums of Arda, but the technology of their manufacture remains a mystery. If you want
your metallurgist friend to throw something heavy at your head, ask him about this alloy.
It's been analyzed to death: 86% silver, 12% nickel, plus trace amounts of nine rare metals
from vanadium to niobium; they can measure these proportions to the ninth digit after the
decimal. X-ray its structure, and do a myriad other things, except reproduce it. Some say
(not without a trace of mockery) that the old masters would supposedly forever invest a
fraction of their souls in each batch of mithril, and since today there are no souls, but only

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the 'objective reality perceived by our senses,' by definition we have no chance to obtain
true mithril.

The most recent attempt at a solution had been undertaken by the smart guys at the
Amor Center for High Technologies with a special grant from Angmar Aerospace. It all
came to naught: the grantor was presented with a plate of some alloy two millimeters thick
(86.12% silver, 11.96% nickel, and so forth) and told that this was real mithril and
everything else was just legends. As usual, the smart guys then asked for another grant to
study this creation of theirs. Without blinking an eye the boss of the rocket men produced a
loaded museum crossbow from under his executive desk, aimed it at the project leader and
suggested that he protect himself with his plate - if it holds, you get your money, if it
doesn't, you won't need it. Unsurprisingly, that was the end of the project. I have no idea
whether this actually happened, but those who know the CEO of Angmar Aerospace well
insist that the joke would be quite in his taste - not for naught does he trace his lineage from
the Witch-king.

The deal with inoceramium that supposedly served to make the rings of the Nazgul is
much simpler, and the reason people don't often see it is obvious. This metal of the
platinum group is not only extremely rare in Arda's crust (4 x 10** atoms; compare gold at
5 X 10^ or iridium at 1 x lO' atoms) - unlike the other platinoids it is never found scattered,
but only in large nuggets. You can figure out the probability of finding one such yourself.
Actually, not too long ago a nugget weighing a fantastic 87 ounces was found in Kigvali
mines in South Harad; the headline in the local paper was Find of the Century - Six Pounds
of Inoceramium Would Make Enough Rings for a Platoon of Nazgul. This metal has
absolutely no unusual properties other than its density (higher than osmium).

But enough about metals.

Alviss never married. She dwelt in self-imposed isolation in her Jasper Street
mansion, dedicating her life to raising the son she bore at the appropriate time after those
events. This boy grew up to be none other than Commodore Amengo - the one whose
voyages are universally considered to have ushered in the era of great geographical
discoveries. The Commodore had left behind the maps of the shore of a new continent that
was to bear his name, wonderful (in a literary sense) travel notes, and a long train of broken
hearts - none of which brought him any marital happiness. Aside from the great western
continent (which was long believed to be the legendary Far West, with resultant attempts to
discern Elvish features in its aborigines), Amengo' s list of discoveries includes a small
tropical archipelago which he had deservedly named Paradise. The name was changed later
by the Holy Church (the local girls looked like the living, breathing houranies as portrayed
by the godawful Hakimian heresy), but the two biggest islands of the archipelago, whose
shapes closely resemble the yin-yang symbol, have managed to keep the names given them
by the discoverer: Alviss and Tangorn.

By my lights the famous seafarer had immortalized his parents' names in the best
possible way. Nevertheless, the love story of the Umbarian courtesan and the Gondorian
aristocrat had been a favorite topic of writers ever since. For some reason these people
either turn the protagonists into disembodied romantic ghosts or else reduce everything to
primitive erotica. Alas, the recent Amengian screen version - The Spy and The Whore - is
no exception: it was rightfully rated XXX in Gondorian theaters and banned outright in
puritanical Angmar. The movie's artistic merits are scant, but it's totally politically correct:
Alviss is black (excuse me - Haradi- Amengian), and the relationship between Tangorn and

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Grager has distinct gay overtones. The critics predicted as one man that the judges of the
Silver Harbors Film Festival would protect themselves from the charges of racism, sexism,
and other horrible 'isms' by throwing every conceivable award at it, which is exactly what
happened. In any event, the inimitable Gunun-Tua's Golden Elanor for Best Actress was
well-deserved.

Almandin and Yakudze were hanged in the courtyard of the Ar-Horan prison on one
of the exhaustingly muggy August nights of 3019; along with them were executed Flag
Captain Makarioni and seven other naval officers that had led the 'Admiral Camero's
mutiny.' That was the post factum description of Operation Sirocco, during which the
admiral first destroyed the entire Gondorian invasion fleet right at the piers in a pre-emptive
strike, and then landed a raiding party which burned Pelargir shipyards to the ground. To
save face, Aragorn had to sign the Dol Amroth Compact. By its terms Umbar did
acknowledge itself "an inseparable part of the Reunited Kingdom," but got itself permanent
free city status in return. Its Senate was renamed to 'magistrate council' and its army to
'garrison;' Special Envoy Alkabir, who represented the Republic, even managed to wangle a
special provision banning His Majesty's Secret Guard from operating in its territory. To the
mutual satisfaction of the king of Gondor and Umbarian senators. Admiral Carnero's raid
was declared to have been a banal pirate foray, its participants deserters and traitors who had
forsaken their military oath and officer's honor.

Of course, the people viewed Camero's co-conspirators (the admiral avoided court-
martial by getting himself killed at Pelargir) as heroes who had saved their Motherland from
foreign enslavement, but the fact remained that they had gone against orders. The
Republic's Prosecutor General Almaran had a simple solution to this ethical dilemma:
"Winners are always right, you say? Like hell! Either law exists and is the same for
everybody, or there's no law at all." The pathos of his prosecutor's speech (quoted in whole
or in part in every modern law textbook) can be summed up exhaustively by its historic
concluding statement: "Let justice be done though the heavens fall!" Be that as it may, the
executed officials of the Umbarian secret service should have known better than anyone else
that motherland's gratitude usually takes strange forms ...

Sonya never found out about Haladdin's mission (as we already know, this had been
his special concern) and remained certain that he and Kumai had perished on the Pelennor
Fields. But time is merciful, so once those wounds had healed she fulfilled her life's destiny
by becoming a loving wife and wonderful mother, having married a worthy man whose
name is absolutely irrelevant to our story.

In my opinion, royal personages are of much lesser interest, since their fates are well-
known. For those too lazy to pick up a book or at least review their sixth-grade history
lessons, let me remind you that Aragorn' s reign was one of the most magnificent in Middle
Earth history and one of the watershed events separating the Middle Ages (the Third Age)
from modernity. The usurper did not try to win the affections of the Gondorian aristocracy
(such a project would have been dead on arrival), instead betting correctly on the third
estate, which cared for things like tax rates and safety of trade routes, rather than dynastic
rights and other such phantoms. Since His Majesty had effectively burned all bridges with
the aristocracy, paradoxically this gave him freedom to implement radical agrarian reform,
drastically curtailing the rights of landlords in favor of freeholders. These factors were the
basis for the famous 'Gondorian economic miracle' and the colonial expansion that soon
followed, while the representative legislative bodies Aragorn had created to counterbalance

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the aristocracy have survived to our day almost unchanged, earning the Reunited Kingdom
its well-deserved title of Middle Earth's oldest democracy.

It is common knowledge that the king promoted and supported science, crafts, and
sea-faring ventures, appointed talented men to important state positions without regard to
their lineage, and was sincerely loved by his subjects. The only dark stain on Elessar
Elfstone's reputation is the early period of his reign, when his Secret Guard (admittedly a
really scary outfit) had to protect the throne from the feudal lords with an iron hand;
actually, most of today's experts believe that the scale of terror had been greatly magnified
by the nobility's historians. Aragom's famously beautiful wife Arwen (Elven-bom,
according to legend) played no role in matters of state and only imparted a certain
mysterious luster to his court. They had no children, so the Elfstone dynasty ended with its
founder, the throne reverting to the Prince of Ithilien - in other words, things went back to
the way they were.

It is rather hard to analyze the reign of the first Princes of Ithilien, Faramir and Eowyn,
in political or economical terms - it appears that they had neither politics nor economics
over there, but only a never-ending romantic ballad. Nearly all the contemporary poets and
painters must have contributed to the creation of the captivating image of the Fairy of the
Ithilien Woods (weird, isn't it - Ithilien, the industrial heart of Middle Earth, had forests
once!), since Faramir' s modest court had become a sort of a holy shrine to them, and not
making a pilgrimage there was the height of bad taste. But even correcting for the
unavoidable idealization, one has to admit that Eowyn must have been an exceptionally pure
soul.

Thanks to that army of artists we have several portraits of Prince Faramir, too; the best
one I know of is reproduced in a monograph entitled Philosophical Agnosticism and its
Early Adepts recently printed by the Amon Sul Tower Publishers in Annuminas. In any
event, none of those images have anything in common with the brass profile gracing the
cockades on the mustard-colored berets worn by the commandos of the Ithilien Paratrooper
Regiment. By the way, the famous 'mongooses' - a special anti-terrorist unit whose
soldiers were on every TV screen in Arda recently when they brilliantly freed the passengers
of a Vendotenian airliner captured in Minas Tirith airport by the Hannani fanatics from the
Northern Mingad Liberation Front - are part of that regiment, as well.

Faramir had committed exactly one act of foreign policy during his entire reign - he
approved Baron Grager's request to send him south of the Hamen River to conduct a series
of intelligence and sabotage operations he had devised: "... by all indications the fate of
Middle Earth will be decided, and soon, in Near Harad." Strangely, the subsequent fate of
Grager of Aran (often called, not without justification, the savior of Western civilization)
remains the stuff of unverified legends and anecdotes. The only thing that is known is the
end result of his efforts - the massive rebellion of nomadic Aranians against their Haradi
masters, which had led, domino-fashion, to the fall of the entire ominous Harad Empire and
its fracturing into an ineffective bunch of warring tribes. Nobody knows how this
adventurous intellectual had earned his iron-clad authority among the fierce savages of the
Hamen savannah. The fairy tale of him accidentally ransoming a son of an Aranian
chieftain at a slave market in Khand appears entirely unreliable; the suggestion that his path
to power lay through chief priestess Svantatra's bed is cute and romantic, but people familiar
with the realities of the South can only laugh at it. Even the manner of the baron's death is

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uncertain: either he perished in a lion hunt, or was killed accidentally while mediating a
conflict over summer watering-hole rights between two small Aranian clans.

But the fate of Eomer is so incredible that some researchers are still trying to prove
that he was a legend rather than a real person. Having ascended to the throne of the Mark of
Rohan after the Mordorian campaign, he had discovered - to his surprise and acute
displeasure - that there was no one left to fight any more, at least in the near Middle Earth.
For some time the famed warrior had tried to amuse himself with tournaments, hunts, and
amorous adventures, but quickly tired of it all and fell into depression. (Historical veracity
impels me to admit that on the battlefields of love this chevalier sans per et sans reproche
was characterized by a total lack of taste combined with a fantastic appetite, so much so that
Edoras wags suggested that their monarch's motto should have been 'king size fits all.')
That was when the involuntarily idle king remembered a certain marvelous eastern faith that
had led him to victory on the Field of Pelennor. At first Eomer wanted to make Hakima the
state religion of Rohan, but then he came up with a more interesting plan.

At that time the Khand Caliphate was in the middle of an anemic religious war
between two sects of Hakimians. It is still uncertain how Eomer decided which one of those
was the one true faith. Personally, I suspect that he flipped a coin - the actual dogmatic
differences thereof were and are a fertile field for scores of Doctors of Divinity. Be that as it
may, he converted his entire Royal Guard, bored silly and ready to fight anyone at all, to that
true faith (legend has it that one of Eomer' s knights, when asked how he felt on the path of
True Faith, responded guilelessly: "Not bad, praise Tulkas - my boots aren't leaking") and
went South. The king left his cousin-twice-removed as regent in Edoras; sure enough, this
plunged the country into dynastic struggles that lasted almost a century and culminated in
the War of Nine Castles, which wiped out the entire knighthood of Rohan.

To the total astonishment of his companions, once in Khand Eomer actually did
renounce his previous life as sinful, gave all his possessions but the sword to the poor, and
joined the order of Hannanites (warrior dervishes). Utilizing his commander's talent in the
service of his chosen sect, he crushed the opposition in three decisive battles, ending the
twenty-six-year 'holy war' in only six months; the faithful Hakimians deservedly dubbed
him The Prophet's Sword, while the schismatics called him God's Wrath. At the end of the
third battle, when the heretics' imminent defeat was beyond doubt, Eomer was killed by a
stone from an enemy catapult - truly the best death a genuine warrior may wish for. The
Hakimians promptly canonized him as a holy martyr, so he should have no problems
obtaining the companionship of houranies.

This looks like a good place to stop ... In conclusion, I would like to stress that I have
filled the gaps in Tzerlag's story at my own discretion. The old soldier bears no
responsibility for my inventions, especially since many will now passionately charge the
storyteller - who else? - with deviating from the mainstream version of the events of the end
of the Third Age. One has to note that the public's knowledge of those events is usually
derived from the literary adaptation of the Western epos - The Lord of the Rings - at best,
but often only from the Sword of Isildur TV series and the Galleries of Moria first-person
shooter game.

I might sonorously remind such critics that The Lord of the Rings is the historiography
of the victors, who had a clear interest in presenting the vanquished in a certain way. Had
genocide taken place back then, after the Western victory (and where did those peoples
vanish if it hadn't?), then it's doubly important to convince everybody, including oneself.

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that those had been ores and trolls rather than people. Or I could ask them: how often do we
find in human history a ruler that would relinquish his power, for free, to some nobody from
nowhere (pardon me - a Dunadan from the North)? Yet another subject of immodest
curiosity might be the actual payment Elessar Elfstone had to make to the marvelous
companions he had acquired on the Paths of the Dead. I mean, summoning the powers of
Absolute Evil (for a noble cause, of course) is totally commonplace, he's neither the first nor
the last; but for those powers to meekly revert back to nothingness after doing their job
without asking anything in return sounds highly dubious. At least I've never heard of such a
thing. Or I can ... I can, but I won't. Whatever for? I have no desire to engage in this sort
of polemics.

In other words, guys, live and let live. In our case it translates to this: you don't have
to listen to me spin tall tales if you don't like them.

THE END

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Appendix I

Quote Attributions, Historical and Cultural References, and Translator's Notes

Title

The term 'Ringbearer' in the title of this work is a re-translation of the word used to translate
the term 'Ringwraith' in the most popular rendering of The Lord of the Rings into Russian.
This loads the Russian version of the title with double meaning, referring at once to the
nazgiil ring Haladdin carries and to the way his mission parallels Frodo's in The Lord of the
Rings. Obviously, this nuance is lost in English translation.

Epigraphs to Part I

"No indeed! We are not strong ..." - Rudyard Kipling, Song of Picts.

"Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few" - Winston
Churchill, referring to the deeds of British fighter pilots in a speech on 20 August 1940.

"Gold is for the mistress ..." - Rudyard Kipling, Cold Iron.

Chapter 1

Hamada (Arabic) - a type of desert landscape consisting of largely barren, hard, rocky
plateaus, with very little sand. A hamada may sometimes also be called a reg (pronounced
"rug"), though this more properly refers to a stony plain rather than a highland. Hamadas
exist in contrast to ergs, which are large areas of shifting sand dunes. (Wikipedia)

Orocuen - author's reconstruction of the name that got shortened to "Ore"; meant to evoke
Araucanian Indians.

Bactrian (Arabic) - camel; usage mimics Tolkien's avoidance of the term 'elephant.'

Haladdin - the name is meant to evoke Aladdin and Saladdin (Salah-ad-din), the foe of the
Crusaders.

Chapter 2

Garden of Thirteen Stones - a type of Japanese garden containing thirteen stones, placed so
that only twelve are visible from any vantage point.

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Manna - actual common name of edible lichen Lecanora esculenta.

Abo - author's play on 'obo,' a small stone pyramid the Mongols erect as shrines to spirits.

Tzandoi - invented word.

Mantzag - invented word.

Chapter 3

The agricultural debacle described in this chapter is modeled on the one caused in the
kingdom of Babylon by irrigation engineers imported by Egyptian Princess Nitocris.

"Not to wait for nature's mercies" - a part of the official slogan of Stalin's "Re-engineering
Nature" plan.

"Smithy of the nations" - England's designation at the height of Industrial Revolution.

"A state that is unable to feed itself and is dependent on food imports cannot be considered a
formidable foe" - a statement variously attributed to Winston Churchill and Henry Kissinger
regarding the Soviet Union.

Chapter 4

"There are things more important than peace and more terrible than war" - the first part of
this statement was made by Alexander Haig, Secretary of State in the Reagan
administration, during his confirmation hearings.

"What you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake." - Joseph Fouche,
Napoleon Bonaparte's Minister of Police, reportedly said something similar regarding the
planned assassination of Enghien, Due d'Otrant. The quote is also sometimes attributed to
Charles Maurice de Talleyrand or Antoine Boulay de la Meurthe.

Chapter 6

"Phony war" - a reference to the stand-off between British and German armies in 1939.

"Land for peace" - the modality of negotiations between Israel and its enemies following
the 1967 Six-day War.

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Chapter 7

Commander-South - this construction for "Commander of the South Army" mimics Soviet
terminology of the 1917 Civil War (which was typically portrayed romantically in Soviet
propaganda), with its penchant for abbreviations.

"We're all mortal, guys" - a hint at Friedrich II of Prussia's famous "Dogs, do you want to
live forever?"

Houranie - a derivation from "houri."

Chapter 10

Teshgol boundary - a boundary (sometimes called a tract) is a geographical term that
denotes a parcel of land that is markedly different from the surrounding landscape, a wooded
depression in this case.

"Mop-up" - the author's intent was to use the American Vietnam-era term "sweep and
clear," which the Russian Army had adopted during the Chechen War to mean wholesale
destruction of civilian population. Since such connotation is missing from contemporary
American English, I have decided to substitute it.

The set-up with a prisoner buried in the sand up to his neck and left to die may be meant to
invoke a similar situation in a cult Soviet "eastern" movie "The White Sun of the Desert."

Chapter 11

"I swear by near and by far" - Alexander Pushkin, Imitation of the Quran.

"The World is Text" - a reference to Umberto Eco's "open text" philology.

"If you're weak, show strength to the foe" - Sun-Tzu, The Art of War.

"Edge against edge" - a cliche popular in Maoist propaganda, denotes a forceful response.

Chapter 15

Vendotenia - the author's creation, a country south-east of Mordor.

''The Natural Basis of Celestial Mechanics . . . theology" - a reference to Sir Isaac Newton,
supposedly a member of Prince Ashoki's secret order whose goal was channeling science
into peaceful applications.

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Chapter 16

Law of causality - a fundamental principle of physics that rules out the possibility of a given
event affecting any preceding ones.

Twin-key principle - an approach to security in which it takes two keys, held by distinct
persons, to open a lock.

Chapter 17

". . . find a hidden object with a frame" - one of the methods used by "biolocators," people

supposedly capable of locating aquifers, ore deposits, and the like when walking over them
holding a wooden or metal frame, which rotates toward the sought object.

"Searching a dark room for a black cat that's not even there" - a reference to a series of
quotes, variously attributed, regarding mathematicians, philosophers, and theologians. One
of the best known is by H. L. Mencken: "A philosopher is a blind man in a dark room
looking for a black cat that isn't there. A theologian is the man who finds it."

Epigraph to Part n

"A soldier covers nae mair of it" - Robert Stevenson, Kidnapped.

Chapter 20

". . . watching his beloved brush her hair in the morning" - a reference to Graham Greene's
The Quiet American.

Chapter 23

Matun - a reference to Kipling's Truce with The Bear.

"Thick-walled stone towers twenty to thirty feet high" - this describes the dwellings of
mountain men of the Caucauses and Scottish Highlanders.

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Chapter 24

"A chain of fishes' voice and the sound of cats' steps" - a reference to the Norse myth of
Fenrir.

Firn - a type of snow that has been left over from past winters and has been recrystallized
into a substance that is an intermediate stage between snow and glacial ice.

Chapter 25

Mashtang - the author's term.

Greengo - a riff on 'greenhorn' and 'gringo'; original text uses American Indian term
'chechako' popularized by Jack London. I replaced it due to perceived low awareness of
Jack London's works.

Gibberish - the actual name for the direct substitution coding method; the current meaning
of 'nonsense' developed later.

Chapter 27

Nin'yokve - the author's term, a phonetic meld of Japanese 'ninja' and Latin 'que' (that,
which).

Hadaka-jime - an actual term for one of ju-jitsu strangleholds, the rear naked choke.

Chapter 32

Fasimba - a character in Harry Harrison's Deathworld 2 (ironically, a slaver). That
character trades pleasantries with another: "Hate you, Ch'aka!" "Hate you, Fasimba!" This
is meant to hint that the first Emperor of Harad is modeled on Chaka-Zulu.

Umglangan - a reference to Umglangani, King of the Zulu during the Boer wars.

Epigraph to Part III

"He was a self-made counter-terrorist" - John LeCarre, Little Drummer Girl.

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Chapter 36

Rostrum - the ram bow of a naval ship.

Smoked beer - an actual brewer term, the German Rauchbier.

Chapter 37

"... to get rid of a caravan trade competitor for good" - a reference to the Fourth Crusade, in
which Venice succeeded in siccing the Crusaders on Constantinople rather than Palestine,
becoming the dominant trade power in the Mediterranian after Bysantium's demise.

Chapter 38

Umbarian fire - a reference to the 'Greek fire' of Bysantium.

"Gentlemen don't read each others' mail" - the words with which General Robert E. Lee
supposedly refused to read materials collected by Confederate intelligence.

Chapter 40

'Umberto' - a deliberate play-of-words reference: Umbar/omerta/Umberto Eco.

'Zamorro' - a reference to Neapolitanian camorra that sounds like the famous soccer player
Bobby Zamora.

The names of Umbarian citizens are meant to convey the melting-pot character of Umbar by
sounding derived from various Mediterranean and nearby cultures. E.g., Almandin sounds
Arabic (a garnet-like mineral), Makarioni - Italian/Russian (macaronil AdmixdX Makarov),
Carnero is Spanish ('fish'), Yakudze - Georgian (the original uses Jacuzzi, which I replaced
due to reader comments on its ingrained brand image).

Chapter 41

'Rosette' - the closest slang equivalents I was able to find for this weapon (improvised out
of a broken bottle) were "tulip" and "nigger knife"; the former appears unpopular while the
latter would not have fit the milieu.

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Chapter 42

Vaddari - this name derives from wazari, a judo term for a good move that nevertheless
does not result in a clear win (earns half a point).

"The winner is always right" - this was the formula with which Empress Catherine the Great
released General Alexander Suvorov from court martial. The general's crime was a swift
capture of the Turkish fortress Turtukai despite the orders of his indecisive superior. Field
Marshal Rumyantzev.

Chapter 43

Hakimians (adherents of Hakima) - the name of this invented religion derives from Louis
Borges' "Hakim of Merva, the masked painter."

Chapter 44

The story of pro-Elvish underground in Umbar is intended to evoke the history of the
Communist International in Europe and the USA of the 1920' s and '30' s.

Chapter 46

Vivino - a fictional bird.
Chapter 47

"The magic phrase 'there's such a thing as necessity'" - this turn of phrase was a Soviet
propaganda favorite.

Chapter 48

Iguatalpa, Uraupan, etc. - these are actual names of places in mountainous areas of Mexico.
Hachapuri (Georgian) - cheese-filled bread pockets.
Basturma (Armenian) - raw-smoked meat.

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Pifos (Greek) - a large ceramic jug. Some are large enough to admit a man (compare the
finale of the tale of Ali-Baba and the Forty Thieves). The opening process described is still
in use in western Georgia.

Chapter 50

Ash-Sharam - an invented name.

Mangal (Turkish) - an outdoor wood-fired grill or a barbecue prepared on one.
Caravan-bashi (Turkish) - leader of a caravan.
Lagman (Uzbek) - a kind of Asian spaghetti.

Chapter 54

Ulshitan - a derivative of sumpitan, the blow tubes used by Dayaks.

Anchar - a mythical super-poisonous tree of Oriental legend. The paralytic action described
is that of the curare poison.

Epigraph to Part IV

"Make ye no truce with Adam-zad" - Ridyard Kipling, Truce with The Bear.
Chapter 56

Ichiga (Siberian Russian) - a soft-soled tall boot for swampy forests.
Ponyaga (Siberian Russian) - an actual load-carrying device.
Kumiss (Mongolian) - a mildly alcoholic drink made from horse milk.

Chapter 57

Grizzly - the name of Dol Guldur's commandant was chosen to echo that of General
Groves, head of the Manhattan Project.

Fire jelly - the description is that of an actual Molotov cocktail recipe.

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Weapon of Vengeance - a mythical super-weapon trumpeted by Nazi propaganda during the
last year of WWII.

"An honest division of labor: clean hands for the mastermind, clean conscience for the
executor" - a quote from a book by Viktor Suvorov, a former Soviet spy.

Chapter 60

The description of Lorien is intended to echo the style of Orwell's 1984 and portray a
totalitarian society.

"Never as united as now" - a Soviet propaganda cliche.

"This is a great mystery" - Ephesians 5:32; intended to hint at something both secret and
dangerous to know.

"Experts who had tried, year after year, to divine the internal politics of a certain powerful

and enigmatic state" - a dig at the Western Sovietologists who had regularly failed
spectacularly in their attempts to predict Soviet policy, and especially at the mythical
struggle between the "hawks" and the "doves" in the Politburo they have theorized.

Chapter 63

Sponge steel - the author's invention.

Chapter 64

"Donkeys and scientists to the center" - during the Egyptian campaign. Napoleon Bonaparte
traveled with a large group of scientists in his train, from which he formed the Institut de
L'Egypte. The command ''Formez les carres, les anes et les savants au centre" was
reportedly sounded before every battle, most famously before the Battle of the Pyramids on
7/21/1798.

Chapter 65

"Idiot of the shining helmet" - a reference to Hector's description in Homer's //mii.

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Chapter 67

Vakalabath's prophecy - the author's invention.

Chapter 69

The scene at Orodruin, including Tzerlag's loss of fingers, is a paraphrase of Frodo's final
test in The Lord of the Rings.

Kurum (Siberian Russian) - a boulder scree.

Epilogue

The format of this chapter, written from the standpoint of an imaginary modem Gondorian
revisionist historian, is intended to cast the entire work as an alternative history written in
the real Arda, where The Lord of the Rings is the accepted "mainstream" version of actual
historical events. See Appendix II for more details.

"What will History say?" - Bernard Shaw, The Devil 's Apprentice

"Dare to err and to dream" - 'Wage du zu irren und zu traumen" Friedrich Schiller, Thekla

"Objective reality perceived by our senses" - a Marxist definition of matter.

"Operation Sirocco . . . destroyed the entire Gondorian invasion fleet right at the piers" - a
reference to Sir Walter Raleigh's raid on the Second Spanish Armada at Cadiz.

"Let justice be done though the heavens fall!" - the Anglicized version of Friedrich I's
"pereat mundus et fiat justitia."

"... the scale of terror had been greatly magnified by the nobility's historians" - a dig at
official historians, who had changed the estimates of the number of victims of Ivan the
Terrible, Richard the Ilird, the French Revolution, etc. many times to conform to official
propaganda.

Grager of Aran - a clear and unambiguous reference to Lawrence of Arabia.

Priestess Svantatra - the author's joke; Svantatra was the name of a right-wing party in India
of the 1960's.

The story of Eomer' s conversion echoes both the story of the sudden conversion of several
Viking konungs to Christianity in order to rule Russia's northern tibes, and the official story
of Prince Vladimir the Baptist, who supposedly chose a monotheistic faith to convert his
country to after an open debate in Kiev between the preachers of Catholicism, Eastern
Orthodoxy, and Islam.

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The War of Nine Castles - a cross between the War of the Roses and the Battle of the
Golden Spurs (fought at Courtraj on 7/11/1302 between a Flemish militia and a French
mounted expeditionary force, the first battle in which infantry vanquished armored knights).

"the faithful Hakimians . . . the schismatics" - this mix of Islamic and Greek religious terms
is yet another deliberate attempt to prevent a too-firm identification of any entity described
in the book with any real- world one.

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Appendix II

"Why I wrote an apocryphal treatment of The Lord of the Rings'^
An essay by Kirill Yeskov for the Semechki fanzine, 2000

First, a few words about myself. I'm not a writer either in form (no literary memberships;
royalties are a negligible portion of my income) or in substance (writing fiction is not my
only or even main occupation). I'm a senior researcher at the Paleontological Institute of the
Academy of Sciences - the very place where [Russian geologist and science fiction author]
Yefremov used to work; professionally I'm known as the author of almost a hundred works
on the classification of CheUcerata and historical biogeography. In the last few years I have
found it more interesting to deal with living children than with extinct arthropods - I teach
electives in high school, summer and winter supplemental courses, etc. I wrote a couple of
textbooks, got involved in creating a new natural history school curriculum; if I had to state
a preference, it is precisely those activities that I consider my most important. I graduated
from the Biology College of the Moscow University (a well-known nest of Voltairians) and
have gained most of my life experience in expeditions through Siberia and Middle Asia; I'm
an epicurean hedonist in my aspirations and a skeptical rationalist by conviction. Do you get
the picture?

I'm saying this to explain that I wrote The Last Ringbearer (like my previous novel. The
Gospel According to Afranius) strictly for my own enjoyment and that of my friends; I can
be termed a graphomaniac in that sense. A graphomaniac can be a good or a bad writer
(there were some geniuses among them, like Griboedov and Lewis Carroll), but he never
writes competitively - that is, to fit the tastes of a publisher or some average book-buying
audience; he only writes for his own niche (whether it's some group or Alice Liddell is
irrelevant).

The Last Ringbearer was written for a very specific audience, too - it's just another "fairy
tale for junior scientists" like myself. It is meant for skeptics and agnostics brought up on
Hemingway and brothers Strugatzky, for whom Tolkien is only a charming, albeit slightly
tedious, writer of children's books. Those were the people who got the biggest kick out of
the novel; theirs were the reviews that used the expression "sleepless night," dear to any
writer's heart, most often.

On the other hand, I can somewhat understand the feelings of "professional" Tolkien fans
who foolishly parted with their money to buy this... this... whatever. This is not unlike
some teenager, besotted with pirate fiction, tricked by the Corsair title into buying a book by
a certain G. G. Byron, and then inveighing on the Internet: "Total baloney - loads of stupid
love stories and not one decent boarding! The name must be there to trick the readers,
otherwise who'd buy this crap!" Guys, please understand that this was not written for you! If
you do grab something not meant for you - which ought to be obvious after reading about

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three paragraphs, n'est-ce pasl - then don't whine like an Arkansas bumpkin who got taken
by The Royal Nonesuch.

However, the reaction of the upset Tolkien fans leads us to a really interesting question of
the propriety of utilizing secondary worlds created by one's demiurge predecessors.

(Whether our own world is all that primary - whether Richard III was an evil traitorous
hunchback or Alexander of Neva a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche - is another
question that is well beyond the scope of this essay.) The founder of this literary tradition of
playing with the others' masks and backdrops was one Dio Chrysostomos, a Greek who
lived under the Roman Empire; dissecting Homer's text with the scalpel of irony, while
strictly abiding by its stated "facts," he had rather convincingly proved that the Greek
Achaeans had suffered a resounding defeat at the hands of the Greek Trojans and went home
empty-handed, and that the rest was all pure PR, to use a modem term.

There are two ways of dealing with a foundation world. One can mechanically expand it in
time or space, making a sequel. A sequel is by definition secondary and competitive, and I
know of no sequels that are more or less notable as literature (serial novels are another
matter). Moreover, an author can't even write a decent sequel to his own text: I think we can
agree that Twenty Years After vs. The Three Musketeers is like a woodcutter vs. a carpenter.

An apocryphal work - a different take on well-known events (whether from the real or an
imaginary world is irrelevant: who are we to judge which is derivative?) - is totally

different. Naturally, the world of an apocryphal work turns out differently, bearing at best
the same relation to the initial world as that of d'Artagnan and milady Winter does to real
France under Louis the XIII ... or is it vice- versa? Actually, upon contemplation, what
difference does it make? What's important is that while the world of a sequel is a
reproduction that adds absolutely nothing to the original, the worlds of a canonical and an
apocryphal work can ideally make a "stereoscopic pair" that adds "depth" to the former.
That is the field where all self-respecting authors have been playing ever since the
aforementioned Dio, sometimes with quite decent results. (Interestingly, one can't write a
good sequel to one's own work, but one definitely can write a worthy apocrypha - take
Stanislaw Lem's Observation on the Spot.)

This immediately creates a moral contradiction that's difficult to resolve. A view of any
interest is only possible when one looks at a given world from an unusual ethical or

aesthetical viewpoint, one that's most removed from that of its creator. Thus did Mark
Twain, an orthodox adept of liberie, egalite, and fraternite, plunge his Yankee into the
idealistic knightly world, proving convincingly that all those Galahads and Merlins lied
often and bathed seldom; thus did Sapkovsky gaily turn Wonderland into black horror,
brewed, for good measure, from a clinical psychoanalysis of the relationship between
Professor Dodgson and little Alice Liddell; thus did feminist Gloria Howard prove, from the
viewpoint of Captain Ahab's wife, that the entire stupid hunt for the White Whale was but a
game of a bunch of developmentally arrested guys, an apotheosis of male infantilism and
irresponsibility ... The literary merit of the aforementioned works is beyond doubt, but
whether it's ethical to so treat the source texts by Melville, Carroll, and the Arthurian
legends is not obvious.

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Nor is this an idle question. For example, I've read Yankee at King Arthur's Court prior to
the legends themselves, and Mark Twain had forever poisoned my perception of this part of
the global cultural heritage with his vitriol: "Now Sir Kay arose, and began to fire up on his
history-mill with me for fuel. It was time for me to feel serious, and I did." (And brothers
Strugatzky made it even worse with their "comrade Merlin" and "fair sir Melnichenko" ...)
Honestly - cross my heart and hope to die - the last thing I want to do is to poison some
teenager's future experience of Tolkien. Looking for a place for The Last Ringbearer in the
long row of literary apocrypha, I dare place it next to my personal favorite Rozenkrantz and
Gildenstern Are Dead (the movie, not the play). An exquisitely paradoxical post-modem
game Tom Stoppard played against the Shakespearean backdrop is precisely the relationship
with the source Text that I sought to accomplish. Whether I have succeeded is for readers to
judge.

Now for the biggest question which I get asked constantly: "What was it about the world of
The Lord of the Rings that had so attracted you, enough to make you want to write in it?"
Briefly, I was attracted by a logical challenge to come up with a consistent explanation for
several obvious contradictions in the image of Middle Earth that the Professor painted,
demonstrating thereby that those contradictions are not real. Paradoxically, it was precisely
the widely known "the Professor was wrong" thesis (which, thanks to the publisher's whim,
graces the cover of the first edition of The Last Ringbearer) that I sought to disprove.

"It appears to us that the chief motive and the main impulse of Tolkien's myth-making was

the joy of creating a vast and consistent imaginary world, well developed in space and time.
It is this joy of creation that undergirds Tolkien's ethical-religious concept of 'co-creation,'
which likens the true Artist creating his own world to the Creator Himself. [...] Apparently,
this writer has created the most complete 'personal' mythology in the history of literature:
an imaginary world with its own Book of Genesis, history, chronicles, geography,
languages, etc. This painstakingly detailed imaginary universe has no close literary
equivalent (emphasis mine)." (R.I. Kabakov, Tolkien 's Lord of the Rings and the Problem of
Contemporary Literary Myth-making.) In other words, the world the Professor had created
turned out to be "real"; moreover, it is the only real one in the entire fantasy genre. Well,
noblesse oblige.

It's unlikely that anyone will devote any serious effort to analyzing the ecosystem of a
barren desert populated by train-sized predatory worms that eat excavators and sweat

psychedelics - fantasy is fantasy. Not so the Middle Earth; the developed perfection of
Tolkien's world quite impels one to conduct natural history studies of it, sometimes
provocatively so. This invites another comparison, however strange at first blush, between
Tolkien and Yefremov.

Perhaps you remember The Hour of the Bull - a sociological dissection of totalitarianism
plus intriguing (albeit sometimes drawn-out) philosophical digressions on various topics.
Besides all that, the book featured a very curious planet, with its axis of rotation in the
orbital plane (making for no seasons), eight continents grouped in four-link chains in the
middle latitudes of either hemisphere (the combination of ocean currents that arises under
such conditions makes for a very warm and even climate, like that of Earth's Mezozoic).

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And if we observe the existence of ancient giant trees (much like malloms), then you can be
sure that the absence of strong winds that would endanger such structures is implicit in the
properties of atmospheric circulation in the planet's trade wind belts in this type of climate.
It's noteworthy that Yefremov introduced all those peculiarities of Tormans's physical
geography only for the sake of that "real feel"; they are completely irrelevant to the literary
goals of the book. It's just that Yefremov (a professional geologist who was awarded the
USSR State Prize for his scientific, rather than literary, work) couldn't help but do a good
job on these details.

Tolkien was a practicing scientist, too, but a linguist rather than a natural scientist like
Yefremov, so the foundation of professional knowledge he had used to erect Middle Earth
was different. It is fairly obvious to me that the game the Oxford professor decided to play
with nature began, in essence, with the creation of imaginary languages, with their own
alphabets and grammar. Then he created the epic tales to match those languages, then the
peoples who composed those tales, and only then the steppes, mountains, and forests for
those peoples to pasture their herds, build citadels, and battle the "Dark from the East"
therein. This, precisely, was the sequence: "In the beginning was the Word" - Ainur's
music, pure and simple. Truly an excellent model of the Act of Creation!

However, Tolkien the philologist had obviously had little interest in this last, non-living
component of Middle Earth - its physical geography - and created it only because he had to,
with predictable results. It is a well-known fact that the Professor had painstakingly verified,
to the day, the lunar phases during his heroes' long quest. I believe that, but the problem is
that he had overlooked some much more significant elements of the local natural history
background.

The Middle Earth has several built-in physical defects, and there's no getting away from
that. In his well-known essay Must Fantasy Be Stupid? Sergei Pereslegin provides a detailed
classification of errors commonly committed by fantasy authors. He uses Tolkien' s work as
an example of one of them, an "irreversible professional error": "It occurs in a geologically
unstable world. Tolkien, being a professor of English Literature, knew nothing of plate
tectonics, while the topography of Beleriand and Eriador are highly important to the story;
therefore, it seems impossible to fix the author's mistake."

To explain: if a planet has a single continent - Middle Earth - it means that the convection

currents in the planet's mantle form a single cell, so that the entire "light" part of the
continental crust has gathered over the point where the mantle matter sinks toward the core,
like foam gathers over the bathtub drain. (This had happened on Earth at least twice, in mid-
Proterozoic and late Paleozoic, which was when two super-continents of Megagea and
Pangea formed.) When subcontinents collide, they bunch up into folds (e.g., the Himalayas
that arose at the collision of the Indian subcontinent with the Eurasian plate). This means
that there ought to be a huge Tibet-like mountain plateau smack in the center of Middle
Earth; well, where is it?

Pay attention, now - strictly speaking, such errors are trifles. In Pereslegin' s litany of sins an
"irreversible professional error" is classified under tolerable errors, being one of the minor

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ones. It's obvious that one person can't be equally proficient in linguistics and geology (I
suspect that Yefremov had committed no fewer errors creating Tormansian languages than
Tolkien had in Middle Earth tectonics). So we can pardon the Professor - the infraction he
had committed was not particularly dangerous to society; The Lord of the Rings can be
paroled. This will acknowledge it to be a regular fantasy text - I mean, a really good one,
easily in the top five . . .

Do you like this option? Me neither. Because The Lord of the Rings is not a good, or even
the best, fantasy text. It is sui generis, the only one of its kind; therefore, we will not settle
for anything less than a full exoneration.

We will assume that Middle Earth is as real as our world, so if some of the details do not fit
our concepts, it's our problem. On the other hand, we will adhere scrupulously to the laws of
nature. As Tolkien himself wrote, it's easy to imagine a green sun, but "To make a
Secondary World inside which the green sun will be credible, commanding Secondary
Belief, will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a
kind of elvish craft." Well, the sun has its usual color in Middle Earth (and probably belongs
to G-2 spectrum class), its surface gravity and geochemistry do not seem different from
ours, and even the lunar month is 28 days. Therefore we have to approach the task wielding
Occam's Razor (as is customary to the European intellectual tradition): we will appeal to
magic and suchlike only when out of all other options.

It turns out that all the seeming contradictions of Middle Earth's natural history can be
resolved with a single assumption: that Tolkien is describing only the northwestern part of
the local landmass, rather than the whole thing. Actually, it's not even an assumption:
Tolkien's map is obviously intentionally cut off in the south and the east; why should we
assume that his world ends there? There's enough room there for the hypothetical central
plateau or even other continents and archipelagos.

If Middle Earth is as real as our world, it must be as infinitely varied. It must have a myriad
of aspects that Tolkien had not covered as not worthy of his attention. For example, any
mention of economics is as missing from his romantic world as sex was supposedly missing
in the USSR - but how likely is one to find any such mundane matters in the knightly
romances of our world? It seems quite justified to me to assume that the Middle Earth
population, aside from battling the Dark Lord and his minions, also plowed, reaped, traded,
robbed, etc. The heroic hobbits on their quest did not subsist only on herbs, rabbits, and
Elvish breads - they also drank beer in taverns, and one has to pay for beer. (I mean, one
doesn't have to, really, but that would make for a criminal rather than a knightly novel.)
Trick question: what coin did they use? Right - the Professor made no mention of that
(pennies are merely a generic name for a fraction of a currency).

This question regarding Middle Earth currency, which I've used often to stump Tolkien
experts, has served as the departure point for a whole series of conclusions. Take Rohan, for
example: What was its population's occupation? "The best horses in Middle Earth" are all
nice and fine, but horse-breeding can in no way be the mainstay of an economy. Or take the
Dark Lord's countless hordes: What did they eat in the desert of Mordor - jackrabbits?

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We've all read Lev Gumilev and have some idea of the logistics of expansion. In general,
how can there be a capital city smack in the middle of a desert? That just doesn't happen. . .
but wait - actually, it does happen! Cities in the desert - that's the perished city civilizations
of Sahelian Africa. Once the "Atlantic climate optimum" was over, Sahara began
encroaching on the savannah, and that was the end of them. Actually, sorry - this isn't The
Lord of the Rings any more, but rather The Last Ringbearerl

And if the world of Middle Earth is real, then so are its people. If all those Aragoms and
Faramirs are not "dramatis personae" but real people who figure in the epochal tales of the
North-western peoples (which tales Professor Tolkien had then collected and adapted), then
there can be a variety of opinions concerning their deeds. This is something we're quite
familiar with in our own world: in alternative opinions Richard the III comes out a most
noble man who had paid for his nobleness with both his crown and his head, plus
posthumous reputation to boot, whereas Joanne of Arc turns out to have been a sadistic
psychopath who belonged on the auto-da-fe pyre like few others. Plus Middle Earth surely
has PR and infowars (how else?); perhaps it even has its own Professor Fomenko to claim in
all seriousness that there was no Second Age, Angbad is nothing but Mordor, and Fingon,
Isildur and Aragom were the same person. . .

However, diversity of opinions doesn't mean that those opinions lack clarity; quite the
contrary. I see fantasy as a genre with very strict rules (only the classical "closed" detective
story has stricter ones). Among those rules (such as medieval space-time structure of the
physical world and medieval structure of the spiritual world, meaning a conflict of Absolute
Good with Absolute Evil) Pereslegin lists this one: "A consistent romantic ethic - a
romantic attitude of the author, the characters, and the readers toward war, love, heroism,
and death." It follows inexorably that the characters have to be classified as "good guys" and
"bad guys" - it is precisely this "black-white" contrast that makes fantasy so appealing to
teenagers. In other words, the very canon of fantasy forbids moral relativism - to allow it is
sort of like having a classical tragedy happen in more than one place or having the detective
be the murderer in a classic detective story.

Tolkien adheres to this rule perfectly, which is why for many readers, especially older ones,
The Lord of the Rings has forever remained a kind of an American action movie - a bunch
of good guys goes to wipe out a bunch of bad guys, who are bad if only because they are on
the other side. In reality it's not quite so, and possibly not so at all, but this view is very
common. So when it was time to set up the pieces in The Last Ringbearer, I have decided
that although I have to have "black" and "white" (as per the canon), at least I would draw
the boundary between them in a line somewhat more meandering than the Anduin - more
like it usually lies in real life.

And another thing. The romantic tradition does not presuppose that every bad guy be
depicted a priori as a fiend from Hell, which is what Tolkien consistently practiced. Even if
we kill each other at the walls of Dechaud, does it follow that Comte de Rochefort is any
less noble than Athos? Not to mention that the Sheriff of Nottingham counts Richard at the
Lee among his men, while there are future risaldars among the Afghan bandits of Kamal.
Recall Kipling's famous:

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Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Tolkien clearly prefers the first two lines, while I go for the last two, even though both are
unadulterated 24K romanticism. . .

In conclusion, a few words about my personal take on the Professor. It is of a dual nature: I
bow before Demiurge Tolkien who had created an amazing Universe, but am rather cool
toward Tolkien the Storyteller, author of the tale of four Hobbits and their quest. In other
words, to me the theatrical backdrop is way more majestic and interesting than the play
itself. Terry Pratchett said it well: "Tolkien's mountains have more personality than his
characters." So I'll bet that mine is far from the last Game that will be played in the
Professor's world. Rozenkrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead - long live Rozenkrantz and
Gildenstern!

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